


2017 Secret Santa/Advent Ficlet Collection

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advent Fic, Angst, Baking, Blast-Ended Skrewt, Christmas Cards, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Grimmauld Place, Gym time, House Elves, Implied Mpreg, Invisibility Cloak, Just Add Kittens, Letters, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Character Death, Poetry, Polyjuice Potion, Pregnancy, Secret Santa, Sentient Houses, Strangers, Vignette, Werewolves, Winter Solstice, pub night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:16:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: A collection for the advent fics/Secret Santas I'm doing this year. Still some slots openHEREif you want to Ask for a fic for someone else—just hit up my Tumblr.





	1. Lav's Louboutins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GingerTodgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerTodgers/gifts), [frnklymrshnkly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/gifts), [aibidil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/gifts), [bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/gifts), [silvered_glass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/gifts), [gracie137](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracie137/gifts), [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/gifts), [synonym4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/gifts), [JET_Playin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/gifts), [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/gifts), [ravenclawsquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/gifts), [LLAP115](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLAP115/gifts), [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts), [DeWitty1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeWitty1/gifts), [watermelon_wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermelon_wolf/gifts), [Krysania (Tat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat/gifts), [mlraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlraven/gifts), [Rachelletwin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachelletwin2/gifts), [unadulteratedstorycollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/gifts), [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/gifts), [TDCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDCat/gifts).



> Requests are still open [HERE](http://lol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com/) through December or until I run out of Asks to fulfill. I have the right to refuse an Ask, but will def try to do them if I can.
> 
> DO NOT REPOST OR ARCHIVE THIS FIC ANYWHERE. That includes Wattpad, Instagram, translation sites, and literally anywhere that I didn't post it myself. TY (I can't believe I am having to put this notice up again. What happened to fandom etiquette?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: oh my goodness - this is so lovely, I would actually like to request something for the amazing @gingertodgers. Could I prompt Lavender/Millicent ? rock in a shoe / snipping of scissors / rosy cheeks.

# Dec 1 | for @gingertodgers

“Ow!” 

“What on earth are you griping about now?” Millicent asked. 

She was far too cold and far too annoyed for another twenty minutes of discourse on Lavender’s small aches and pains. Of course she had aches and pains! It was bloody freezing out here! They should’ve Apparated, but nooo, Lavender wanted to take the Metro because it was more festive.

“There’s something in my shoe.” 

Millicent frowned. “Should’ve worn better shoes.”

Lavender gave Millicent the look she’d spent all month learning from watching Nicki Minaj interviews on repeat. Despite the look, Millicent was warmed by how lovely Lavender’s rosy cheeks were in the cold.

“These shoes are better. They’re Italian leather and hand-sewn!” said Lav.

“Don’t keep rocks out very well, though, do they?” asked Millicent, as they approached the door. It was wrapped like a Christmas present in a large bow— _definitely_ not Draco’s doing. 

“Hmph,” said Lavender. She rang the doorbell, starting wiggling her finger about in her right heel, frowning.

A moment later, Potter opened the door, beaming like a loon. “Come in, come in!”

“Scorpius is still trying to wrap your present,” Draco advised them, steering them from the dining room. Millicent heard a furious snipping of scissors and pulling of Spellotape from the roll and decided she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to open the resulting present. 

Lavender was still hobbling around on her be-rocked shoe after Draco had provided them with spiked cider and canapés. She looked so miserable, trying to unobtrusively de-rock her shoe, that Millicent’s heart melted a few degrees.

“Come on, then,” Millicent said to her, pressing her mouth to Lavender’s ear. Lavender shuddered. “Let’s go to the loo and I’ll help you get this rock out.”

Lavender beamed at her, straightened her shoulders. “Thanks, Milly! My nails are too long.”

_Not too long to rub me off,_ Millicent distinctly recalled.

They retreated to the loo and Lavender propped herself up on the counter, her knees spreading as far as her short skirt would allow. Millicent knelt down, running her hands down one smooth, silky leg, and carefully worked Lavender’s Louboutin off. 

A tiny, minuscule, barely perceptible rock fell into Millicent’s palm. She held it up for Lavender to see, and hoped the exasperation she felt was visible.

“You got it!” Lavender said. “Thank you so much, Milly!”

“Of course,” said Millicent, anchoring her hands on Lavender’s knees to hoist herself back up.

“Wait just a second,” Lavender said, a hand on Millicent’s shoulder. “You’re already down there…might as well make the most of it.”

Millicent smirked. “Anytime, love.” And lowered her face back down. Potter and Draco’s holiday party could bloody well wait.


	2. S. Snape, Unanticipated Reactions of Unstudied Potion Combinations in Highly Magical Situations, Ars Alchemica, Vol. 204, Iss. 3, 2001, p. 13.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Santa ask: can I please request Snape/Snape for frnklymrshnkly? Words for inspiration: logfire, good whiskey, memories.

# Dec 2 | for @frnklymrshnkly

Severus still didn’t know how it’d happened, but as time passed, he realised it was the one gift the gods had ever deigned to give him.

The Wiggenweld Potion and blood clotting potion he always kept to hand as a spy should _not_ have interacted as they had. They should have cleared the poison from his skin, clotted his neck long enough for him to escape and tend to it properly, and then put him in a healing sleep for a few days to a few weeks. 

They should _not_ have turned him into two people. 

Two completely separate and unique versions of himself, both having agency and separate thought processes. 

Severus had diverged that night in the Shrieking Shack, and only one version of himself had needed tending. The newer (and Severus was convinced he was the original) had not been affected by Nagini’s bite. New Severus had sprung fully formed from Severus’s mouth as soon as he’d downed the second potion, whole and vibrant, just like Venus.

And instead of Severus having to figure out how to move his soon-to-be rotting carcass somewhere safe to heal lest the Ministry or random Order members found him, New Severus had done it for him—moving him directly to Spinner’s End once he’d staunched the bleeding on Severus’s neck.

“Tea?” New Severus asked.

“And a splash of the good whiskey, if you don’t mind,” Severus replied, flipping the page in his potions journal. _Ars Alchemica_ had not yet figured out he was, legally dead, so they kept sending him issues. 

The Gringott’s goblins had figured out he wasn’t dead, but didn’t care to inform the Ministry of the same, so they continued to let him into his vault when he came (under Polyjuice, of course) and they continued to collect the Ministry’s “symbolic gesture of gratitude” in the form of a twenty-thousand Galleon payout to his estate on his behalf. 

New Severus handed him a tumblr, hearty dose of whiskey with a splash of tea instead of the other way around. Severus smiled as he inhaled the lovely scent. New Severus knew him so well.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The Ministry had thought they were paying out a slush fund that they’d just seize back in a few months. The Gringott’s goblins refused to turn the vault over lacking _habeas corpus_. 

“I’m considering submitting our findings to _Ars Alchemica_ ,” Severus said.

New Severus glanced up from where he’d been stood by the fire, periodically stoking the logs. He smirked. “Oh?”

Severus shrugged delicately, turned another page. “It could be stimulating.”

New Severus smirked at him, finally returning to his own chair by the fire, matching tumblr of tea-and-whiskey in one long-fingered hand. He smirked wickedly at Severus before settling in to give the idea proper thought.

“We could use the proceeds to fix this old place up,” New Severus said, sneering at the peeling wallpaper. “It’s dreadfully dreary, but a good airing-out, a fresh coat of paint, perhaps some modern appliances might brighten it up.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “You are such an optimist; it’s disgusting. We should get out of this dreadfully dreary country instead. Let this place burn.”

New Severus shrugged. “Whatever you like. So long as, whatever we decide, it’s something that allows us both to create new memories together...something we share from different perspectives, and not the same.”

Severus frowned. That was a concern of his as well. “We’ll begin drafting up the experiment’s design tomorrow, then. Names changed, of course.”

New Severus smiled. “I do so look forward to another long, sweaty day in the lab with you.” He tipped his tumblr in Severus’s direction, then took a long, slow sip, his eyes’ never leaving Severus’s own.

Severus felt his face heat. He hoped, soon, he would learn to get used to the idea of someone desiring him as strongly as New Severus did. It was a heady feeling. He was sure he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it.


	3. A Pimm’s Cup Full of Hot, Messy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: Draco/Harry, (established relationship maybe?) one of them is trying to be romantic and seduce the other, and the seducee keeps interrupting them to wax philosophical about consent, for @aibidil ! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unauthorized outtake from @aibidil's amazing fic [Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256968/chapters/27852360). I recommend you read it!

# Dec 3 | for @aibidil

“Hey,” said Harry, plopping down next to Draco in the booth. He set Draco’s Pimm’s Cup cocktail down, took a drink from his own ale. There was a rare snow falling outside and he almost wished he ordered them hot toddies instead.

Draco glanced at him, smiled briefly, then returned to his conversation with Hermione. 

“But what I think you’re failing to realise, Granger, is that sometimes when I’m drunk I am really, really gagging for it, and I absolutely want to have sex—a great deal of sex, in fact—even more so than when I’m not drunk.”

Harry perked up. He pushed the Pimm’s Cup closer to Draco’s hand.

“But that’s my point!” Hermione said. “Alcohol inhibits your inhibitions and makes you do things you wouldn’t normally want to do.”

Harry frowned, pulled the Pimm’s Cup back a little bit.

“I  _do_  normally want to have sex,” said Draco. “I just want to have  _more_  sex when I’m drinking.”

Harry grinned, started to slide the Pimm’s Cup closer once more, but Hermione noticed it, and gave him a pointed look. He smiled winsomely at her, and casually drank more of his ale.

“But you’re not fully of your own mind when you do,” Hermione said. “You can’t consent. It’s just like with love potions—”

“Oh, not the love potions again,” said Draco. “Those are so last year.”

Hermione frowned, pushing one long braid out of her face. “But people are still—”

“Yes,  _other_  people. Not  _Draco_  people,” Draco said, waggling one finger at Hermione. He finally noticed the cocktail Harry’d brought him, picked it up, and took a sip, giving Harry a fond smile. 

Harry beamed. 

The Draco continued: “I don’t care for using love potions. I care about getting a nice buzz and then fucking Potter—”

Harry beamed further. Ron looked heavenward.

“—Or him fucking me.”

The expression apparently became permanent on Ron’s face.

“Well, you know—” Harry began.

“And really,” continued Draco, “isn’t it  _my_  choice?”

“It  _is_  your choice,” Hermione insisted. “But how can you be sure you really  _want_ to?”

“Because I  _always_  want to fuck Harry,” Draco said, exasperated. “One-hundred percent of the time. A cocktail’s not going to change that.”

Harry sat up straight, grinning like a loon. Ron gave him a thousand-year stare from across the table, which Harry ignored. What a lovely holiday season to be alive!

Hermione huffed, rolled her eyes. “All right, all right, I  _can_  see your point—in this small, singular, isolated case—but I still don’t think it’s applicable to all other situations.”

“Who cares about other situations?” said Draco. “I mean, well, I  _care_ , certainly, but on a daily basis, it’s just Harry’s sex life I’m concerned with. Usually. Unless something terrible has made the news, and it becomes public discourse—”

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Harry advised,  _sotto voce_. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given Draco the second cocktail after all.

“You are such a prick, Malfoy,” Ron said, though it was lacking any heat.

Draco stuck his nose up a bit. “Harry  _likes_  my prick.”

Hermione choked on her wine. Ron rolled his eyes.

“Are you two  _ever_  going to stop broadcasting your sex lives to us?” Hermione asked. “Ron told you about giving me head  _one time_. How about a little Christmas spirit?”

Draco seemed to consider this. He took another long drink of his Pimm’s Cup. “Unlikely,” he finally said. “Malfoys don’t believe in Christmas spirit.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He reckoned he was going to need to drink Draco’s cocktail himself to make it through the night. He hoped it would still end in some hot, messy sex for him (don’t tell Hermione).


	4. Velvet and Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I think you're doing the Secret Santa thing? Could I possibly ask for Drarry (surprise) for bixgirl1, established relationship pls, and words for inspo: fairy lights, sentient house, velvet. Thank you! <3

#  **Dec 4 | for @bixgirl1**

The front door opened and Draco froze. It closed again, a bit too hard for Grimmy’s tastes, if her resultant creaking floors and walls were anything to go by. Draco frowned at the floor.

“Let me sneak by, you old house! I’m not the one who slammed your door!” he whispered.

The house creaked again, and then, finally, went still and sturdy once more. Draco nodded once in satisfaction, and then tip-toed out of the bedroom to the landing. He peeked over the edge. 

Harry was still struggling to unwind his scarf from his neck. That would take awhile—the scarf had never quite warmed to warming Harry up again after that time he tossed it in the hamper with their worn pants. Draco still had some time.

He sneaked back into the bedroom, quietly flicking non-verbal spells all around. The ratty old cotton-poly blend duvet was replaced with a deep green velvet (goose down filled, of course). 

He’d nearly finished cleaning up the wallpaper and changing the pattern before Potter got home. Draco quickly finalised the last bits—changing the blood-dripping daggers motif to something more universal. He decided on frolicking fairies, but Grimmy gave an ominous creak when he did, so Draco quickly changed it to frolicking dryads. Grimmy settled. 

Draco had already made room in the wardrobe for his clothes (though it required several expansion charms and tossing out some of Harry’s most offensive items), redone the rug in a tight-weave cream and green tapestry design, revarnished the lovely parquet floors beneath, and fixed all the painted- and grime-shut windows. It was December, but Draco would not let a little inclement weather ruin his night’s sleep. A wizard needed fresh air, and that’s what Warming Charms were for.

The stairs creaked as Harry finally got his scarf off and started ascending. Draco gave Grimmy a pleased smile in thanks for letting him know his time was nearly up. The last touch was just a bit of mood lighting—and it  _was_  nearly Christmas, after all, so Draco could be forgiven a bit of uncharacteristic holiday cheer.

He danced his wand around the edges of the room, directing several strings of fairy lights in place. He flicked his wand and they turned on, casting the bedroom in a lovely, soft, sparkling glow. Draco smiled, pleased. 

The bedroom door jostled.

“Bloody fucking door,” Harry muttered just on the other side. “Why won’t you let me in? I  _barely_  slammed the door, and it was an accident, anyway! The wind caught it!”

Draco smirked. He gave Grimmy a nod and she let Harry open the door.

He practically fell through, falling against Draco’s chest, and blinking up at him with big round eyes behind his glasses. His eyebrows furrowed, though a smile was playing at his lips.

“What are you doing here, Draco?”

Draco smirked. “I couldn’t very well live in such squalid conditions, could I? I had to do some redecorating.”

“Live in…?” Harry broke off, finally noticing the state of the bedroom for the first time.

His eyes went even wider and his fingers clutched at Draco’s biceps. “You’re—you’re moving in?”

Draco pursed his lips. “Well my lease was up and you’ve been nattering on about it for literal  _years_ , and—”

“Shut up,” Harry said, and kissed him.

Draco grinned against Harry’s lips. “Merry Christmas, Potter.” Then he shut up, and kissed Harry back.


	5. Lav & Pav Predict the Future, Even During a Retrograde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Santa request: can you please do Lavender/Parvati for @silveredglass? inspiration could be the astronomy tower + hot chocolate or mistletoe + lavender's pro-werewolf rights campaign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's really long, sorry!

#  **Dec. 5 | for @silveredglass**

In eighth year, during breakfast on the fifth of December, Parvati says to Lavender:

“Stop messing around with all these  _stupid boys_  when it’s totally obvious—and Professor Trelawney’s predictions back me up—that  _we’re_  the ones who are meant to be together, like, forever and ever.”

Lavender blinks, having never consciously considered this before. “You think so, Pav?” she asks, and Parvati just rolls her eyes and gestures for Lavender to finish her tea.

Lavender drains the cup, pushes their jam and toasties out of the way, and flips the cup onto a clean saucer.  Parvati leans in as Lavender carefully lifts the teacup. They stare at the dregs spread out on the saucer and Lavender’s heartbeat triples in time.

“Oh,” she says, staring at the tea leaves. “You’re right.”

Parvati just smiles smugly at her, her lovely brown eyes—which Lavender always loves to accent with shimmery kohl—drift downwards, and Lavender blushes hot as she realises Parvati is looking at her lips. 

Parvati’s eyes flick back up, her teeth press into her own full, glossy lips, and Lavender’s heartbeat quadruples.

Lavender lowers her voice, leans in. “Even though I…you know?” and she makes a vague, silly gesture that somehow encompasses both the long scar along the side of her face and scary teeth and claws.

Parvati rolls her eyes. “The leaves don’t lie, Lav.” 

She points at Lavender’s saucer again, one long, brown finger barely touching the leftmost edge. “See, it says right there I’ve been in love with you since fourth year, and…” she moves her finger to the top, “there it says you’ve been in love with me for ‘many moons,’ which is obviously a nod to your not-quite-condition, and even here…” she moves her finger once more, to the centre, “this is very obviously a symbol of working through strife and feral instincts together.”

Lavender bites her lip, trying not to explode with happiness all over their breakfast. Instead, she manages to rein in her wilder instincts and darts in to give Parvati a quick kiss—right on her glossed lips! Lavender licks the vanilla from her own lips, and can’t believe her own boldness.

Down the table, Seamus, Anthony, and Blaise catcall them, like total  _boys_ , and Lavender is 100% sure in that moment that Parvati and the tea leaves are  _right_.

“Fuck off!” Lavender yells, and the boys all break into cackles, but Lavender doesn’t care.

Parvati’s cheeks go the most lovely shade of mauve—as if she’s applied Madam Hattie Hag’s Glowing Bronze Blusher in ‘Night Spell’ to them, but it’s all natural. 

They manage to sneak away shortly after, and the next year is a a whirlwind of bold discovery—nights with hot chocolate on the Astronomy Tower as they predict their futures together (and even when Mercury’s in Retrograde, their futures always seem to contain good communication, love love love, lots of sex, and…strife.

They kiss under the mistletoe on Christmas, amid even more catcalls from  _stupid boys_ , and Lavender can barely breathe for the the way the firelight in the Eighth Year common room makes Pav’s golden ‘Felix Felicis in Love’ eyeshadow sparkle against her eyelashes. 

Parvati finds a way to stay with Lavender during her strange not-quite-a-werewolf nights. 

Since Lav was attacked on a new moon and not a full moon, she doesn’t transform, but she does spend the night eating about ten pounds of still-bleeding chicken (gizzard and all), with a strong desire to both mate with Parvati and eat her. 

The worst part is that on new moons (and the days leading up to them), Lavender can’t even wear the silver earrings Parvati brought her back from Maharashtra. Incidentally, that’s how Parvati manages to stay with her without getting attacked: she just puts on all of their silver jewelry, and even borrows from Padma to be extra safe. 

Most nights, they end up talking to one another all night, from opposite sides of the room, while Lavender goes through oscillating episodes of blood hunger and lust. She usually falls asleep sometime after rubbing herself off while watching Pav rub  _her_ self off like a goddess in silver bangles, torcs, and earrings. it’s kind of ridiculous, but also kind of hot, and Lav is perpetually grateful that Parvati—a vegetarian—doesn’t get grossed out watching Lavender chow down like a dog on several chicken carcasses and then lick her fingers clean.

They leave school, finally, and even though Lavender doesn’t transform, she has werewolf DNA in her blood, and—thanks to St Mungo’s not having  _any_ patient privacy laws!—can’t find a job. 

Parvati gets a job as a staff writer for the Society section at the  _Daily Prophet_ , and even though Madam Malkin wants to hire Lav, she’s legally not allowed to.

Lavender’s mum gives them a portion of their restitution money (for her dad, an Auror, who was killed by Rodolphus Lestrange in the War) to buy a rare two-bedroom flat in Marylebone. It’s not magical, but the Galleon-to-Pound conversion is outrageously generous and it helps them get by on one salary. Plus, Lavender’s not legally allowed to hold property in the magical world. They use the second bedroom as a wardrobe/makeup vanity/werewolf rights campaign-planning room.

They spend the first year connecting the Floo, warding, making friends with their neighbours, shopping in Muggle London, visiting Diagon and their magical friends, decorating in an eclectic mix of pinks and golds with lots of Indian touches for Parvati and lots of Welsh ones for Lavender—which basically means they have lots of pink-dyed wool blankets, throws, and pillows. 

Lavender writes her thirtieth werewolf rights opinion piece in their spare room while Parvati hangs over her shoulders, pressing lipsticked kisses to the side of her neck. 

“Stop,” Lav giggles, though she reaches up with her free hand to hold Pav in place.

“I’m really proud of you, Lav,” Parvati says then, and a thousand times afterwards, even though Lavender hasn’t made any progress  _at all_ on her quest. No one even notices her letters to the editor.

(It is a quest because she’s a Gryffindor, and has always wanted a quest.)

In fact, Lav works for  _months_  on her campaign before she gets her first breakthrough: Harry Potter. He apologises for how long it took him to notice her hard work—which is normal for boys, Lavender has learned—and then tells him about how Professor Lupin was like a godfather to him, and that  _he_  is Professor Lupin’s  _son’s_  godfather. 

Harry gives her an embarrassing amount of money to step up her campaign, and also tells Hermione about it, which is arguably more helpful. 

Hermione arrives one Saturday morning in December, two winters after they’ve left Hogwarts, with three cups of hot chocolate and a hesitant smile. “I thought I could help,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”

Lavender doesn’t mind at all. 

And it turns out Hermione has been working for the Department of Magical Creatures at the Ministry, and getting nowhere. She  _actually cares_  about werewolf rights, and that’s enough for Lav and Pav. 

The three of them sit around Lav and Pav’s living room, sipping hot chocolate and eating Coconut Ladoo Parvati’s mum had brought over the day before, working through Lavender’s strategy and trying to make it better for people like her and those who had it even worse—full werewolves.

It takes three years before the Wizengamot agrees to a vote on whether or not werewolves should be allowed to hold jobs—but it  _passes_. Parvati kisses her right there in the middle of the Wizengamot as cameras flash everywhere. She can’t even feel her own body because she’s so tightly wrapped up by Parvait, but it’s perfect, so perfect, and Lavender feels like she could float away. 

That night, an owl arrives from Madam Malkin, offering her an apprenticeship. Parvati squeals just as excitedly as Lavender does. They jump up and down in their living room, holding hands and cheering, and then Parvati leans into Lavender and kisses her again, and Laveder’s hand moves from Parvati’s to her waist, pulls her in, and they end up naked and panting right there on top of one of Lavender’s pink ‘Welsh’ wool rugs. 

It’s one of the happiest days in Lavender’s life, right after that day Parvati told her their future.


	6. Gregory Goyle’s Soon-to-Be Famous Gingerbread Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is unprompted and comes from me, just because @callingdrarry is a sparkling gem in Drarry fandom and I missed her birthday. Mr Zeitgeistic gave me the following 3 prompts for a Greg Goyle/Dudley Dursley fic: gingerbread, nutcracker, and record player

#  **Dec 6 | for @callingdrarry**

Greg hummed to himself as he tidied up the counter and cleaned out the espresso machine for the night. It was only early December, but a light snow had started to fall in Diagon. It was likely thanks to the Diagon Community Planning Committee rather than any actual weather patterns.

Ten more minutes until closing, and then Greg could pop home and get into some comfy joggers, maybe pour himself a glass of port, and catch up on the Nigella Christmas special.

The door jangled. Greg smiled automatically, then confusedly when he recognized his customer. 

“Potter? Aren’t you supposed to be at some terrible Ministry holiday party?”

Someone else entered behind Potter and Greg felt his eyebrows go up. That man certainly wasn’t one of Greg’s regulars—or even anyone Greg had ever seen in Diagon Alley. And he wasn’t even wearing robes.

“Sorry, sorry, I know it’s close to closing, Greg, but we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“We?” Greg asked, eyeing the new man with some interest. 

He was tall and stocky like Greg, with muscular arms and a fine bum if the trousers were to be believed. His blond hair was like Draco’s but better (because it wasn’t on Draco) (and also because it looked more like gold than silver, and Greg preferred warm colours). 

“This is my cousin Dudley,” said Potter. “Dudley, Greg Goyle. It’s his bakery.”

Dudley took two confident strides forward and shook Greg’s hand. Greg, somehow, did not remember raising his own hand to be shaken.

“Hey, mate,” Dudley said, and was it just Greg’s imagination, or did Dudley give Greg an appreciative once over, too? “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Greg repeated automatically. He blinked, tried to remember his thoughts and who Nigella was or why she mattered. “What can I do for you?”

(Besides anything at all, Greg’s mind added.)

“Gingerbread,” said Potter, once again sticking his nose in where it wasn’t needed. “Dudley’s in charge of gingerbread for his office holiday party and all the Muggle bakeries are fresh out so I thought I’d bring him here and see if you had any.”

Greg remembered to stop shaking Dudley’s hand. He let go, smiling awkwardly and made a show of turning about behind the counter, looking around. He needed to think.  _Come on, Greg,_  he told himself,  _figure it out_. 

Greg knew he was out of gingerbread, but he really wanted to chat with this Dudley bloke a bit more. 

“Er,” Greg finally said. “I  _am_  out, but—I could make some!”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you, mate,” Dudley said.

“No trouble at all,” said Greg, smiling as this plan formalized in his mind. “I’m closing up here, but why don’t you follow me back to mine and I’ll bake up some at my flat?”

“Really—” Dudley began.

“Would you mind?” Potter asked, looking relieved. Greg really had no idea what Draco saw in him. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut. “That would be so great. I really do need to get back to this stupid party before they notice I’m gone.”

Greg changed his mind on Potter. He was a good bloke. Good sense. 

“Yeah, Dudley and I can handle it. Can’t we?” Greg gave Dudley a bright smile, which he sincerely hoped was not awkward-looking.

Dudley bit his lip, then made a decisive nod. “Sure thing. Can you, er—take me there?”

“Of course,” said Greg, though Side-Alonging was generally something saved for once you’d been dating for awhile. Maybe this bloke just moved fast.

He frowned for a moment, and then it hit him: Potter didn’t  _have_  any magical family left. This was his  _Muggle_  cousin. Greg blinked several times. Well, that could be interesting. 

Greg turned back to Potter. “Go on back to the Ministry. I’ll see to it Dudley gets home safe.”

“You’re a life-saver!” Potter said. “Thanks! See you, Dudley!”

He practically ran from the shop, jangling the door behind him. Greg frowned as the bell charm continued to ring long past when it should’ve stopped. He needed to look into that. 

Later. Now, he had something more important. He turned back to Dudley. “Shall we? I’ll just lock up and then we can pop home.”

Greg flicked his wand at the door and lights, double-checked his ovens were turned off and everything was ready for an early start tomorrow morning. Then, hesitantly, he held his hand out for Dudley. Smiling wryly at him, Dudley latched on. 

It took Greg a moment to remember his Three D’s, but when he did, it was a solid Apparition. They made it to Greg’s flat without any splinching.

“Here we are,” Greg said, hanging his coat and scarf by the door. “Make yourself at home and I’ll make you a cuppa while we wait for the gingerbread.”

“Nice flat!” Dudley called from the living room. 

Greg peaked around the corner, saw him perusing the collection of copper biscuit-cutters that Greg decorated his Christmas tree with. They were interspersed with the nutcracker ornaments Greg had inherited from his Great-Granny Brocklehurst. They looked really nice with the fairy lights, Greg thought. Dudley seemed to agree.

“Thanks!” Greg called. “How d’you take your tea?”

“Just milk,” said Dudley, suddenly very close behind Greg.

Greg spun around, a carton of eggs in one hand. 

“Sorry,” said Dudley, laughing. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Just startled,” said Greg. He set the eggs on the countertop and tried to remember what went into gingerbread dough. He’d just made some this morning (and every morning in December); he should bloody well know what went in them.

“You, er, like music?” Greg asked. “I have some...” He paused, trying to recall which of his favourite musicians had moonlighted as Muggles, too. “Were the Weird Sisters Muggle?”

Dudley’s eyebrows jumped; he tilted his head. “Not that I recall. Don’t mind listening to ‘em, though.”

Greg flicked his wand in the direction of the sitting room, where his record player sat. The record player clicked and whirred as it pulled the record onto the turntable and the needle settled into place. The Weird Sisters’ Christmas album started off with  _Silver Bells_.

“Tea,” Greg suddenly remembered. He flicked his wand at the kettle, shot a burst of Aguamenti into it, and lit the fire on the hob. 

 _Flour. Baking powder. Sugar. Molasses. Butter. Eggs. Ginger. Cinnamon. Cloves. Icing Sugar for the icing._  Greg could do this. He remembered how to bake. 

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing at the two-seater breakfast table against the wall of Greg’s kitchen. “Tea’ll be ready in just a mo’.” 

Greg was in his element now. The ingredients flew all around the kitchen. He set the butter to cubing itself, the four to sifting, and the eggs to cracking. The kettle whistled and Greg reached into the cabinet above the cooker to grab two mugs and tea bags. He wasn’t nearly as fancy about his tea as Draco was—he really hoped Dudley didn’t mind not having loose leaf.

Greg tossed a bag into each mug and poured in the water. He added the milk afterwards and could’ve kicked himself for not even considering whether it would look better to a bloke like Dudley if Greg poured it first or last. He passed Dudley his cup with a hesitant smile while Greg’s kitchen went to work in the background.

“So you’re Potter’s cousin?” Greg said, watching Dudley like a Hippogriff to make sure he liked the tea. 

Dudley sipped the tea, smiled. “Yeah, we, er, grew up together. Didn’t like each other much then.”

Greg snorted. “Don’t blame you. Potter’s right annoying.”

“He’s better now,” said Dudley. “Then again, so am I.”

Greg laughed. “I s’pose we all got a bit better as the years went on.” 

He set his mug aside and went to tend to the ingredients. Only the first few steps could be done by magic; the rest required a human touch or the dough wouldn’t set right. Greg rinsed his hands, then reached in to start mixing the butter into the flour, spice, and sugar mixture. He kneaded slowly, carefully, making sure to do it right. 

“Need any help?” asked Dudley.

Greg glanced up. The Weird Sisters were singing  _Sleigh Ride_  now.

“Nearly done with the dough, but you could pick out a few biscuit-cutters from the tree if you want. So we can shape ‘em.”

“On it!” Dudley said, and hopped up to check the tree. Greg admired his backside as he left—he could admire a hench man like that. 

In the other room, Dudley started whistling along to the Weird Sisters, and it made Greg’s stomach do funny things—like that time he’d used bad milk in a batter, but not in a bad way. 

“You have any preferences?” Dudley called.

Greg bit his lip before yelling back: “The reindeer’s pretty nice, gotta be careful with the legs, though.”

A moment later, Dudley returned to the kitchen with four biscuit-cutters: the reindeer, a St Nick, a snowflake, and a nutcracker.

Greg beamed. “These are my favourites.”

“You seemed to have a thing for nutcrackers,” Dudley said, carefully setting the copper cutters on the counter.

Greg nodded. “Yeah my Granny collected them. She split her collection up with the grandkids when she died, but there were only two of us, so I got half and Mandy got the other half. They’re nice ‘cause I can remember her every Christmas.”

“When did she die?” asked Dudley, carefully.

“Oh, about four years ago,” said Greg. “She was nearly 200, so I reckon she was tired of waiting around.”

Dudley laughed. “Crazy how long you wizards live. Ninety is good for us Muggles.”

Greg frowned. “Well, we don’t all get that old. Just some of us. And anyway, it’s not having magic yourself that keeps you alive, really. Because there have been Squibs and Muggles who married wizards, and they ended up living to like, a hundred and fifty or so.”

And why did that thought make Greg’s stomach do that weird flip again? He frowned, settled into rolling out the dough onto a floured wood cutting board. Dudley stood next to him the entire time, watching with a keen eye. He seemed to find the process fascinating, and Greg surely wasn’t going to turn him away. He tried to flex his forearms with each roll, to make the veins stand out in better relief. But casually. Greg had to do it casually.

Finally, the dough was ready, and Dudley moved in, if possible, even closer. 

“Can I help you cut them?” he asked quietly. 

Greg’s whole body gave a thrill. He nodded jerkily. “Yeah, sure,” he said. 

They both reached for the nutcracker biscuit-cutter at the same time, one large hand brushing another. Greg gave a shiver, and embarrassed, his eyes flew to Dudley’s. But Dudley was staring straight at Greg, his eyes smouldering. Greg felt his pulse increase, like he’d had to run for awhile.

Then Dudley moved his hand further, wrapped his fingers around Greg’s wrist. 

“I wanna kiss you,” Dudley said, his eyes searching. “And I think you wanna kiss me, too.”

Greg nodded too many times. “I mean, yeah, a bit, I do.”  _Shut up, Greg_ , he told himself.  _Be cool_.

Then Dudley leant forward and, tentatively, their lips touched. Greg hadn’t felt anything like this since—he didn’t even want to think about it. All he wanted to think about was how Dudley’s soft lips felt really great against his own, and how Greg could now tell that Dudley hadn’t shaved that morning, even though his stubble was too fair to see unless you were really looking for it. Greg pressed closer, their equally hard chests coming in contact. 

Greg grabbed onto Dudley’s trim waist, only belatedly remembering his hands were covered in flour, but Dudley didn’t seem to care, so Greg pulled him in closer, their groins touching and  _Merlin_ , Dudley was just as excited as Greg was.

Greg pulled away, panting. “Finish these later?” he asked, nodding to the uncut gingerbread. 

Dudley grinned. “Yeah, much later.”

 _Thank fuck for that,_  Greg thought, as he leant in again.


	7. The First Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh my goodness, if there are any spots left for the Secret Santa, could I steal one of them for @magpiefngrl? Drarry, with the prompt of first kiss and the words fog and flirt? ❤❤❤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure I’ll be writing a LOT of Drarry for this and there’s no way I can top Grudders, so I’m going for something a bit different for this one. Hope you don’t mind, @magpiefngrl. :D (includes lots of whacko head rhymes and unsteady meter…like Draco’s heartbeat) If you hate it, I’ll write you a real fic in January. ❤️

#  **Dec 7 | for @magpiefngrl**

In the autumn of our eighth year, I learn to drown,  
Ice cracking beneath me, and me kicking out,  
reaching and grasping,  
fingers grabbing, but I’m still sinking,  
and shivering like I used to,  
in my old rooms—  
but this isn’t that.

It’s you and your wild eyes,  
your fierce looks, and if I could just realize  
how good you are for me, I’d stop—  
but I know, and I don’t,   
and you keep me with you.

Just above the surface, there’s dry air,  
breathable and reachable, and if I could just  
catch it, I’d save myself, but I—

You’re the water, the oud-and-vetiver  
steam coming from the Prefect’s Bath in December,  
water condensing over browned skin, and I remember it  
roiling up like a blizzard, with you in it,   
and the memories of my first kiss  
still tangible and real against my mouth.

They hear us, and our eyes catch,  
breaths echoing against the walls;  
scattered like quills on a table,  
heartbeats shattering in frozen time,  
but they don’t catch us; they’re never able.

In the winter, I learn to see;  
to feel the sensations of flirtation  
as they drip down my spine,  
ghosting like fog over frozen fingertips, and I  
speak breathlessly, you  
speak breathlessly, our  
voices hushed and hiding, sugared like  
Honeydukes chocolates,  
and the promises I half-worry you’ll keep.

Every morning, I wake with fog,  
clouds lowering down to suffocate us all  
in our tower,  
in our shared room,  
where each night, I fall asleep  
to the sound of your breathing,  
to your eyelids fluttering,  
and the novelty of a room without draughts.

In the new year, we make promises,  
voices unsteady against a black sky, fireworks   
and noises drowning out the stars, but you  
take my hand,   
and your fingers are cold,  
icy and rough,  
like you’ve sunk under water,  
kicking and grasping,  
and caught onto the only thing that  
could bring you up to the surface.


	8. Hope You’re Holidays are Bright and Gay (”It’s ‘your,’ Cormac.”)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pair: Cormac/Ron, Ace of Base, lube, carbohydrates. For synonym4life. *whistles* Love aibidil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rormac/Roarmac and Grudders sagas continue!

“Who’s next?” Cormac asked, excitedly. 

Red-and-green ‘Christmas Swirl’ ink was dripping candy cane splotches onto the cards, causing the Molly Weasley in Ron to despair.  

“Dudley and Greg,” Ron said, checking his list.

Cormac shrieked happily. “I love those dudes!”

“And Greg’s baking, I’m sure,” Ron said.

“Definitely that, too,” Cormac agreed. “Especially when he subs vanilla protein shake mix for the flour. Balances my macros.” 

Cormac bent his head to the card (this year, he and Ron had gone with a festive set with [four winter geese with a holiday wreath](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fshop.cancerresearchuk.org%2Fproduct%2Fwinter-geese-christmas-cards-pack-10&t=M2QzYWY2NTIxNjU3YjJlMTEwMjJhNGUxYTQ0ZDhmODY3YWQxMzFiZixTdUZOS0ZvSw%3D%3D&b=t%3A8gm97689v3F9giDDzMO75w&p=https%3A%2F%2Flol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168326579378%2Fpair-cormacron-ace-of-base-lube&m=0), because they couldn’t find any that had both swans and ducks, and geese were basically the best part of both). Cormac wrote out entirely too much, ended up having to scrunch the text around and up the edges of the card, and then finished with a flourish-y signature.

“Your turn!” he said, passing Ron the card. “I’m gonna put on some Ace of Base to get us pumped for these Christmas cards. You want me to mix you a shake?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Ron said absently. “The Chai flavor, please.”

Ron tilted his head, trying to read everything Cormac had shoved into one holiday card for Greg and Dudley. The handwriting was atrocious (normal) but the spirit was there. Ron turned the card, reading up the right-side edge for the closing, and then he sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head to himself.

The Ace of Base Christmas album began playing.

“Cormac,” Ron called.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You spelled ‘your’ wrong.”

“No way!” Cormac said. “I definitely checked.”

“You spelled it with an apostrophe-R-E,” Ron added.

Cormac peaked around the doorframe, vigorously shaking a Blender Bottle in each hand. Ron took a moment to admire his muscular forearms. 

“But ‘your’  _has_  an ‘apostrophe-R-E’ in it,” Cormac said, brows furrowed, still vigorously shaking their protein shakes.

“Not always,” said Ron. “Only when you’re combing two words. You and Are.”

Cormac smirked, paused to check their shakes, and resumed shaking them. Ace of Base moved into a pop-version of  _‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’_

“Well,  _you_ and  _are_  a hot toddy,” Cormac said, winking dramatically.

It took Ron a minute to get that, but he snorted when he did. “Thanks, but it’s still the wrong version of ‘your’ to use in the card.”

Cormac frowned, came over, and took the card from Ron. His eyes narrowed as he read through it, turning it different directions to read the text that hadn’t fit in the proper area.

“No, it totally makes sense,” Cormac decided. “I said,  _‘Hope you’re holidays are bright and gay,’_  and I could  _also_  say ‘you are gay’ to both Greg and Dudley, so it’s fine. You’re being a Silly Salazar. Now sign the cards and let’s drop them off at the post office so we can pump some iron and each other’s wangs.”

Ron couldn’t argue with that. Reminding himself not to let Cormac do more than write his own name in Hermione and George’s card, Ron signed his name next to Cormac’s, closed the card, and stuck it in an envelope. Cormac watched him avidly as Ron licked the envelope, pressed it closed.

“You know what,” Cormac decided, setting the Blender Bottles down. “Let’s start with the wangs.”

He spun Ron’s chair around and sunk to his knees, one hand already coming up to play with Ron’s fly. Ron tossed Greg and Dud’s card to the desk, where it slid off the other side and landed somewhere behind the unused radiator. Cormac lowered his nose to Ron’s fly, slowly pulled the zip down with his teeth.

_Fuck it_ , Ron thought, as he leant back to give Cormac more space. Greg and Dud would be fine without a card this year. It would be totally fine. 

Cormac grinned wickedly up at him, and Ron stopped thinking about anything but Cormac.


	9. A Very Hagrid Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey zeit, aibidil here. For the secret santa: Hagrid (no pairing), skrewts, blizzard, rum. Make Hagrid like, basking in happiness. For @gingertodgers. :)

#  **Dec 8 | for @gingertodgers**

Scotland, and Hogwarts in particular with all her wards, hadn’t seen this kind of blizzard since Rubeus was a small lad—well, as small as he ever was. Snow was up to  _Rubeus’s_  chest today, so Minerva had cancelled classes, locked the castle doors, and forbidden any of the students from venturing out. 

That didn’t mean Rubeus didn’t end up trudging out to the Quidditch pitch and rescuring a couple of Gryffindor lads who’d sneaked out of their tower on brooms, fallen into the snow, and found their brooms weren’t strong enough to overpower seventeen feet of snow. 

But now Rubeus was back at home, a bonfire the size of the Headmistress’s office burning merrily in his hearth. He made himself a cup of tea, added a litre of rum—just a dash, really—and settled in to read a new large print murder mystery from his favourite author.

“Mrehhhh! Mrehhhh!”

Rubeus glanced up, smiling fondly at his last three Skrewts. They were growing strong—nearly ten foot a piece now—and watching him from their makeshift crate in the corner. Fang was in the opposite corner, as far away as possible, the old coward.

“What is it, loves? Are ye hungry? Want a bit o’ fruit cake?”

“Mrehhhhhhhh!”

“Arright, arright.” Rubeus set his murder mystery aside, heaved himself up, and went to his expanded, Status Charmed ice box. He stepped inside, looked around, frowning. There wasn’t much fruit cake left—he’d eaten more than he thought, himself.

“Ah!” One of the Thestrals had died of exposure in the blizzard. Rubeus hated to waste. Circle of life, and all that. 

He heaved the frozen Thestral from the ice box and returned to his sitting room. He tossed it into the crate with the Skrewts and Rubeus would swear they gave him, just for a moment, a look of utter trust and adoration. He beamed at them. Silly little buggers.

They tore into their din-din, making happy, gutteral purrs as they crunched through bone and meat alike. Rubeus returned to his book by the fire, thinking that it really was Christmas when you got to spend it with the people you loved. 


	10. Next Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! For the secret Santa, could you do a Crabbe/Goyle, best friends with feelings, hot cocoa, potion accident, for @jet-playin ? Thank you for bringing joy and love to the fandom <3 Hugs!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty, sorry!

#  **Dec 2| for @jet-playin**

“Fuck!” Greg snarled, as the kettle boiled over onto his fingers. It always was a prissy thing.

He stuck them in his mouth, sucking gingerly to ease the pain, but it didn’t do much. His eyes watered a bit, but maybe it wasn’t just the pain of burnt fingers making that happen. Greg always got a little sad around this time of year, especially on this day—10 December was…was Vince’s birthday.

Vince was a right pillock, especially at the end there, but Greg still missed him sometimes, ‘specially in the winter. It wasn’t often best friends came around, after all. And Vince had been Greg’s best friend since they were still in nappies. 

That first 3 May, when Greg had woken up to the first day of his life without Vince, Greg had not been sure if  _he_  was still alive either, because his body didn’t feel like his own anymore. He remembered staring up at the waterlogged canopy of his old bed in the Slytherin dungeons and thinking,  _‘This ain’t real, is it?’_

But it was, and now more than ten years had gone by, and 10 December was still a shit day.

Greg did his best with it, every year. He liked to make himself a cup of hot chocolate after he closed the shop down for the evening, and then watch Gordon Ramsay on the Muggle telly. Sometimes, Draco would come over and they’d snicker at Gordon together, but lately, Draco was doing that sort of thing with Potter instead. 

 _Next year,_ Greg thought. 

Next year, he’d have someone to spend 10 December with. Someone who’d just let him sit there and feel a bit wistful for awhile while they drank hot chocolate together.

Greg poured the hot water into his cup of cocoa mix, Summoned a few marshmallows to go on top. He gave the mug a stern look—he wasn’t going to have any more of this ‘spilling on his fingers and burning him’ nonsense. The mug was resolutely still. 

Greg padded into the living room and turned on the telly. Gordon was already waiting for him—benefits of finally being friends with Granger and getting access to her ingenious Muggy-Magi combination spells. Greg settled onto the sofa, propping his stockinged feet on the coffee table, and sipped at his hot chocolate.

Greg smiled. It was just as good as the first time, when he and Vince had sneaked down to the kitchens the night after their humiliating potions accident in first year. The house-elves had made them both hot chocolate. It wasn’t until eighth year that Greg thought to go back down and get the recipe from them.

 _“You're a fucking idiot!”_ Gordon said from the telly.  _“My gran could do better, and she’s dead.”_

Greg cracked a smile. “See, Vince?” he murmured. “Even Gordon still thinks you were real stupid. Happy birthday, you dead wanker.”

He took another sip of his hot chocolate. His mug was behaving better than the kettle, keeping his drink just the right temperature. Gordon stepped out back to cool off while Greg reached into his mug to fish around for a plump marshmallow. Vince always ate the marshmallows first. 

 _“You fucking donkey,”_  Gordon was saying, already back at it.

Greg snorted. Vince had been one of those, too. A jackass, more like, actually. ‘Specially when he’d done that...that real stupid thing he did. What a fucking donkey.

It was a bit weird you could miss donkeys, Greg thought. He and Vince had never... _done anything_  like Draco and Potter do, but there had been times Greg had wondered...times Greg had thought maybe...

But it had never happened. 

 _Vince, you donkey,_  Greg thought.  _Why’d you go and start that fire? You weren’t even a Death Eater. You didn’t have nothin’ to prove._

Greg started to feel his heartbeat change, and maybe something weird was happening to him because he couldn’t decide if he was sad or angry anymore. He just knew that he wished Vince was here right now so Greg could get right in his face and tell him—

 _“Fuck off! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!”_ Gordon yelled.

Yeah, that. So Greg could tell him that. Fuck off for being so Gryffindor-irrational and fuck off for leaving him without a best friend and fuck off for dying before they could—

 _“I wish you’d jump in the oven. That would make my life a lot easier,”_  Gordon snarled from the telly.

Greg’s face heated, his whole body tensing with anger.

“Fuck  _you_ , Gordon!” Greg yelled at the telly. “He wasn’t that bad! He was just young and stupid! You were once, too!”

Gordon didn’t hear him, though. He kept on ranting at the poor sod on the telly, but Greg didn’t hear a word of it. His mug’s charm failed and his hot cocoa was frigid, and he barely cared.

 _Next year,_ Greg thought, wiping furiously at his eyes. 

Next year, he’d have someone to help him get through this day.


	11. What You Really Look Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can I please request a secret santa fic for Goldentruth813? Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas: secret santa, peppermint candy canes, dean's sketch book xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to fit some Jeddy in here, too, for GoldenTruth813, but couldn't make it work. :(

#  **Dec 11 | for @GoldenTruth813**

“Okay, okay, who’s next?” said Ron, still laughing at the last sketch.

“Do Seamus,” Luna said, and everyone kind of stopped laughing, their chuckles trailing off into a tense quiet as their eyes zeroed in on Seamus’s blushing face like he was a bloody Snitch.

“Naw,” Seamus said, laughing. “I’m not sure I want to know what Dean’s artistic eye sees on my face.”

Harry snorted, snuggled in closer to Malfoy—who Seamus still couldn’t get used to seeing around at their weekly pub nights—and said, “C’mon, Shay. You afraid of all the freckles?”

“I don’t have  _that_  many freckles,” Seamus insisted. He took a long pull from his Guinness, added slyly, “Not nearly as many as Ron’s brother Charlie does on his bum, anyway.”

“Seamus!” Ron said, aghast. “Unnecessary information!”

“I agree,” Dean said, quietly. Seamus caught his eye, his facing heating even further. “No one wants to know about Charlie Weasley’s sex life.”

 _But what about_ my _sex life?_  Seamus wondered. 

Dean was only three months out of his breakup with Mandy Brocklehurst—Greg’s cousin, apparently; he’d set them up earlier in the year and Seamus had never expected it to last as long as it had (which was four months)—but there were times…had always been times, really…when Seamus had thought maybe…

“I think you’d have a lovely caricature, Seamus,” Parvati said. “You’ve got such nice bone structure. 

Lavender nodded, “Yeah, such a nice, strong jawline!”

“Let’s see what Dean thinks of his jawline!” Ginny said. “Go on, Dean, do Seamus.”

Seamus choked, barely kept himself from asphyxiating. Dean’s eyes flickered to his throat from across the table, his gaze that same calm, thoughtful look he usually wore, even when he was up to his gills in drink. He grabbed a handful of nuts and started popping them into his mouth, super casually, to cover up his nervousness.

Meanwhile, Dean continued to stare at Seamus with that intense gaze while his long fingers flew across his sketchbook, pressing charcoal into the paper. Ginny and Lavender tried to peak over, but Dean drew the sketchbook to his chest and glared at them until they sat back, laughing.

Seamus took another drink of his Guinness. This one seemed to be taking a lot longer than the other caricatures Dean had done tonight. Everyone’s eyes were flicking back and forth between him and Dean and it made all the strange, tamped-down feelings Seamus had felt since fifth year wobble to the surface of his mind. He wanted—

“Need to start over,” Dean muttered, and quickly flipped to the next page, hiding the original drawing from their group. Everyone groaned. “Shut up,” Dean said, pleasantly, as he started in on the next one.

“So, er, Lav,” Seamus said, desperate to get the attention off him. “How’s your apprenticeship with Madam Malkin going?”

“Brilliant!” Lavender said, and struck a pose so they could better see the gold-embroidered sleeves and neckline of her fashionable pink robes. “I made this frock last week! It was my first solo project and Madam Malkin gave me full marks!”

“Wow, Lav,” said Hermione. “That’s really good. I wish I could sew.”

“Oh, I could teach you!” Lavender exclaimed. “I’ve never got to teach anyone anything!”

“Ah, great!” said Hermione. 

“Dud can sew,” Greg added in is slow, deep voice. “You know that?”

“Greg!” Dudley hissed, his face pinkening. Seamus smirked, glad he wasn’t the only one now. “My mum made me learn during that year we were, er, in a safe house,” Dudley added to the group, his face flaming. 

“He made our curtains,” Greg added. 

“Those curtains!” Malfoy exclaimed. “The ones I thought were from the Louis XIV era? You told me you’d found them in the attic at your mother’s house!”

Greg shrugged, amused.

“It’s finished,” Dean said, and everyone’s attention immediately switched to him and the sketchbook. 

Dean flipped it around so they could all see it. They all burst out laughing. The Seamus in the picture was covered in freckles (but not too many), with an overly firm jaw, and an exaggerated cowlick, but the part that really made Seamus’s insides shiver was how accurate his eyebrows were. Caricature-Seamus was wearing that coy, devious expression he was usually caught wearing in photographs, as he licked an over-large candy cane.

“It’s him!” Harry crowed. “Looks just like that face he makes when he’s up to something!”

“Which is always,” Ginny said, cackling.

“Actually, only about sixty-percent of the time,” Luna objected.

“Guys!” Seamus said, his face flaming again. “I don’t even like peppermint.”

“You like licking things, though, I heard,” Ron said, smug.

“Ron!” Ginny exclaimed. “That’s our brother he licked! We don’t want to know, remember?”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Ron said, grimacing. “Forget I said anything. Wish  _I_  could forget I said anything.”

The conversation moved back to Lavender’s apprenticeship and her and Hermione’s work on Werewolf Rights. Dean went quietly back to his sketchbook, ignoring everyone else. Seamus fiddled with his Guinness, though there wasn’t much more than dregs left. 

“Lemme out, ya wankers,” Seamus said to Harry and Malfoy. Then, to the table, “Anyone for another?”

There were a chorus of ‘Me’s!’ and instructions on what to get and Seamus waved ‘em all off because he was just going to tell Hannah to give everyone what they ordered last time. He was far too tipsy at this point to remember twelve different bar orders.

Seamus got to the bar and gave Hannah the order. She went off pour all the drinks and Seamus leant against the bar while he waited.

“Shay.”

Seamus froze, turned around. Dean was standing right there, far closer than was necessary, but not at all unwelcome. “Hey, Dean. You want something different?”

Dean cracked a smile, like that had been a joke. “I want something, yeah. Don’t know if it’s any different from what I’ve always wanted, though.” 

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, pressed it into Seamus’s hands. “This was the first version.”

Seamus frowned at him, took the paper. He unfolded it carefully, not wanting to smudge any of the charcoal. It took a moment for him to realize what he was seeing because—because surely not!—but then his face went hot and he pressed the drawing to his chest to hide it. 

“Dean!” Seamus whispered. 

Dean just looked at him, head cocked to the side just a bit. Waiting.

Slowly, looking around to make sure no one else was paying attention, Seamus pulled the paper out to look again. In this caricature, Seamus was nearly the same as the other. Same freckles, same eyebrows, same cheeky look. But he wasn’t licking a candy cane here. 

He was licking a cock. And it didn’t take much to see it was  _Dean’s_  cock. Dean’s cock that was dripping exaggerated pre-come all over Seamus’s fingers, his thigh muscles tensing. And then there was Dean’s mouth, stretched wide over Seamus’s freckled dick, both of ‘em looking like they were about to lose it.

“I’ve never done sixty-nine,” Seamus said, stupidly.

Dean cracked a smile. Stepped closer. “Want to?”

“Yeah,” Seamus said breathlessly. “Fuck these wankers. They can get their own drinks.”

Dean’s hand came up and squeezed Seamus’s waist and Seamus was sure he’d entered a fairy circle and the wee folk were taking him through to the Otherworld. 

“Come back to mine,” Dean said.

Seamus nodded mutely. “Anywhere, yeah.”

Dean grinned at him, his hand sliding down to grab hold of Seamus’s hand, and they sneaked out of the pub into the snow flurries and the cold air, Seamus still clutching the drawing in his hand like a lifeline. 

Seamus didn’t mind the cold. With Dean, he felt warm and safe and he was pretty sure this was what he should have been doing all along. But if there was one thing Seamus knew, it was that it was never too late to fix something, as long as you were still breathin’.


	12. Argus Filch Becomes a Family Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @ravenclawsquill said “All I want for Christmas is a multi-chapter NC-17 fic about Filch and Mrs Norris” (???) and I can’t commit to multi-chapter (or NC-17), but how about Filch having to deal with a litter of kittens and night feedings? Seems relevant.
> 
> Unprompted Secret Santa from me to RQ, because I’m sure she could use a little gifty right about now. :)

#  **12 Dec. for @ravenclawsquill**

“What the  _blazes_  is going on out here?” Argus said, ripping the blankets back and stomping out of the bed. “Mrs Norris, what has got into—”

He stopped abruptly as Hogwarts turned the torches on for him—at least the bloody castle had never looked down on him—Mrs Norris was curled up on top a collection of Argus’s clothes. She’d pulled the towel from the bathroom for a fluffy base and piled Argus’s pants and undershirt from yesterday on top. 

She blinked up at him as the light came on, and immediately started purring. 

Argus’s heart skipped several beats. Then he remembered himself and fell to the floor, his knees creaking but he barely noticed. 

 _“Mrs Norris,”_  Argus breathed.

She purred louder, looking very pleased with herself, and Argus couldn’t blame her. He’d had no idea. There were six or seven little balls of fluff snuggled up to her tabby tummy, making such a high-pitched ruckus, but Argus couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I thought you’d just been taking too many midnight trips to the kitchens,” Argus whispered.

She narrowed her eyes at him and he raised his hands. “Sorry, sorry, love. I just—you were pregnant this whole time?”

She flopped back and gave a small “Mrew” he took as “Obviously.”

Argus’s eyes were filling with tears. He could hardly believe it. He was a father! Or a grandfather! To be fair, Argus wasn’t sure most days if Mrs Norris was his baby or his wife. She certainly kept him in line like a wife, always yowling at him when he forgot to eat and running to Poppy for anti-nausea potions when he was starting to get Magic Sickness again—it wasn’t easy being a non-magical person in such a magic-heavy place.

“Can I touch them?” he asked. 

Mrs Norris blinked sleepily at him, gave an affirmative meow. 

Beaming, Argus carefully reached in and took one of the kittens not nursing—he’d hate to interrupt anyone’s first meal—and carefully, carefully ran a gnarled finger along its little spine. It uncurled, stretched out tiny little feet, wobbled its head a bit. Argus glanced at Mrs Norris to make sure it was okay and then carefully scooped it up.

He brought it up to his face so he could see better, and then frowned. There was something—

“Mrs Norris,” Argus said hesitantly, looking at the kitten’s scrunched orange face. “You didn’t—?”

She gave him a steady look.

“You did not!” he whispered. “With the Granger chit’s half-Kneazle?! He’s not good enough for you!”

She growled and he winced. “You’re right. You can make your own decisions.” He looked back down a the kitten again, and saw that it had Mrs Norris’s nose and the shape of her stripes. “I suppose Granger’s cat is rather smart, after all. Can’t really argue with adding more Kneazle back into the line, I suppose. At least you didn’t do anything with that Smith boy’s rude Manx. I’ve never met such a self-righteous cat before.”

Mrs Norris meowed in agreement. 

Argus looked back down at the kitten cupped in his old hands. It had already fallen asleep again, and was Argus imagining it, or was it purring, too? 

“I’m so proud of you, love. You’ve made some wonderful little babies here. Anything you need—anything at all—I’ll take care of it. You want some sweet cream? Some leftover turkey from dinner, maybe?”

She purred and Argus hopped up, grabbed his dressing gown and slippers and hurried from his quarters. There were always a few house-elves awake, no matter the hour, and several jumped up to help Argus as soon as he told him what he needed and why.

“Babies in the castle!” Petta, Argus’s favorite elf, squeaked. “Mz Norris a mummy!” she told the others. They all cooed and rushed to help, plying Argus with bowls and bowls of cream, fluffy velvet cat beds in a variety of colors, and a small playpen they’d found in some secret elf hidey-hole.

“So Mz Norris can have a breaks,” Petta informed him, as she pressed the playpen into his already overflowing hands.

Argus carried his haul back to his quarters, but Mrs Norris and all her kittens were fast asleep. Argus whispered to Hogwarts to keep the cream fresh for her tomorrow, and pulled his duvet and pillows to the floor. He lowered himself, creaking, to the floor, and fell asleep with one wrinkled hand resting on Mrs Norris’s chest, her purring breaths lulling him to sleep.


	13. Remus’s First (and Last) Christmas with the Blacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the secret santa, I'd like to gift dewitty, writcraft, llap115 with some wolfstar! Prompt: Black family holiday traditions ingrained in Sirius vs Actual Star Gift-Giver Remus Lupin, re-gifted house-elf heads and anything else from your tags you want to go with haha!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty dark, sorry.

#  **Dec 13 for LLAP15, Writcraft, and Dewitty1**

Remus wasn’t too sure about spending Christmas with Sirius’s family during fourth year, but his parents had had to leave suddenly for Germany to see to his ailing Gran, and Remus had been at a loose end. At least it wasn’t during the full moon.

“It’ll be fine, Moony,” Sirius insisted. “My parents are rude, but the Lupins are an old line and I told them your mother was Russian witch your dad purchased for a wife, and not a Mug—”

“What?!” Remus hissed. “My mother is not a Russian bride!”

“Shh, shh!” Sirius said, looking around. “Trust me, it’ll go over better than your mum being a you-know-what.”

Remus frowned fiercely at Sirius, but it did no good. Sirius was already looking around the train platform for his parents. Finally, Sirius grinned and started waving. “Here we go—Monstir, Monstir, over here!”

“What the fuck are you yell—” Remus was cut off as a female house-elf popped over to them. “Oh, hello.”

The house-elf peered at him with unusually violet eyes for a moment before bowing to Sirius. “Master Sirius, is you ready to be going home?”

“Yes, thanks, Monstir. Our bags are just here.”

The house-elf snapped her fingers and their trunks and bags disappeared. Sirius reached out and Monstir took his hand. After a belated moment wondering if they were just going to leave Regulus at the station, Remus mentally shrugged and followed suit, and the house-elf popped them to Grimmauld Place.

It was not a nice-looking place. Remus could see that as soon as they landed in the foyer. It was dark and gloomy and the wallpaper had a blood-dripping dagger motif that Remus really didn’t care for.

“Sirius.”

Sirius jumped, halfway through pulling off his travelling coat to hang on the beastly Centaur-spine coatrack by the door.

“Father,” Sirius said cautiously. “This is my friend that I told you about, Remus Lupin.”

Sirius’s dad looked a lot like Sirius, but he had an air about him—a kind of bored and banal evilness—that was wholly different from Sirius’s wild-eyed exuberance and likely Attention Deficit Disorder. Although Remus had certainly never said as much to Sirius. 

After a long moment, Sirius’s father let out an unimpressed ‘hmm’ and nodded to Remus. He held his hand out to shake once, perfunctory. 

“Your brother’s just arrived home with Kreacher,” Mr Black said to Sirius. “And your mother’s expecting you to meet her in the drawing room. Now.”

He walked away and Sirius turned to give Remus a quiet apologetic-grimace sort of look. Remus shrugged. He reckoned a week with the Blacks couldn’t be worse than a week at home by himself, cold and hungry because he wasn’t old enough to use magic for cooking or heating. 

And really, the first day wasn’t too terrible. Mrs Black had a degree of madness about her that Remus, uncomfortably, saw in Sirius. The academic in Remus was macabrely intrigued by the living effects of inbreeding, but the friend-in-love-with-an-inbred-sod part of him was mostly just sad. He wondered if Sirius would’ve still had his bouts of debilitating depression or agonizing events of magic sensitivity where he couldn’t stop screaming until he succumbed to his double-curse of being a Black needing to get the dark magic out of his body. During those times, Remus and James would rush Sirius to Madam Pomfrey, their new Healer, and she would frown at them, read his chart, and take him to a private room to cast dark curses until the pain eased.

The real test of Remus’s strength came on Christmas morning, when Regulus—desultory and trying very hard to be grim—let himself into Sirius’s bedroom and woke them both by pelting them with a long, plush basilisk.

“It’s Christmas, twats,” Regulus said. “Wake up. We have to go downstairs.”

“Fuck off, Reg,” Sirius growled, shoving his head beneath his pillow. “No one wants presents.”

“Duh,” Regulus said. “Christmas sucks, but we have to do it anyway because it’s proper, so quit being a tosser and go down with me so Father wont focus on me before I’ve had breakfast.”

Remus blearily pulled himself from the bed and started dressing. “We’ll be down in just a moment, Regulus. Thank you.”

Regulus laughed darkly, turned to leave. “Don’t thank me,” Remus could’ve sworn he heard him mutter.

He ignored him, determined to be a good guest and hopefully make Christmas a little easier for Sirius. Remus knew Sirius didn’t like Christmas much, but he didn’t know why. Sirius’s family had a lot of money, and they might not be affectionate, but Sirius was adamant that they always got him valuable gifts.

The Christmas tree, however, was a bit disappointing, Remus had to admit. For one, it wasn’t a Fir, but a large, rotting, Venomous Tentacula that put off an acrid, cloying scent whenever one neared it. Remus had done his best to keep a wide berth. 

Mr and Mrs Black were already waiting for them in the drawing room—where the ‘tree’ was. A collection of hungry, caged fairies were strung around the ‘tree,’ giving off faint, flickering glows. Remus tried very hard not to cringe where Sirius’s parents could see him. 

“Merry Christmas, Mrs Black,” Remus greeted her. “Mr Black,” he added, nodding. He held out a small, wrapped package of chocolates he’d brought with him, and Mrs Black took it without a word. 

Sirius stumbled down after Remus, his hair still sticking up a bit from his half-arsed attempt to brush it. “Morning Mother, Father,” Sirius said, his voice oddly emotionless. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Sirius parents said, as if they were discussing a clause they didn’t like in a contract.

Sirius flopped down on the sofa and Remus, feeling very awkward, followed suit. Regulus stared at them balefully from his chair by the weak fire.

“Kreacher,” Mr Black said, bored. “Bring the gifts.”

Kreacher popped away and back again carrying three equally-sized, wrapped boxes. Neither Sirius nor Regulus looked too excited by the prospect of Christmas presents, and Remus was starting to get a wary feeling. 

“You may open them,” Mrs Black said, her smile wide and toothy.

“Thanks, Mother,” Sirius and Regulus chorused, and slowly, as if they didn’t want to open their presents at all, started picking at the wrapping paper. 

Well that was just rude, Remus thought. Regardless of how little affection was exchanged between Sirius and his family, they’d still gone out of their way to give their children—and even their child’s friend—gifts.

“Thank you very much, Mr and Mrs Black,” Remus said. “You really didn’t have to.”

“It was nothing,” Mr Black said. He leant back in his chair and pulled a pipe from his pocket.

Remus smiled at them and began to pull the wrapping from the package. He opened the box and peered inside. Then he blinked. Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. Remus’s throat began to close up and his blood drained from his brain, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy. He slowly, carefully, reached inside, but jumped back when his fingers came in contact with cold, leathery skin.

“How could you?!” Sirius screamed, startling Remus out of his shock. “How  _fucking could you_?!” There were actual wet tears pooling in Sirius’s eyes, and they began to fall as he blinked. 

Sirius reached into his box and pulled out a mounted house-elf head, its violet eyes wide and staring. He threw it at the wall, where it shattered the glass front of a curio cabinet filled with preserved Nifflers. 

“Why couldn’t you have given me an old house-elf head like you do every year?” Sirius cried. “Why her? Why Monstir? She wasn’t even fully grown yet!”

“I got Mongrul,” Regulus added, emotionless. “Taxidermied in the year 1699, as a wedding gift for Calliopeia and Castor Black.”

“That’s right, love,” Mrs Black cooed. “You’ve been learning your Black history like a good boy.”

Regulus smiled, but it looked like a grimace.

“And you, Remus,” Mrs Black continued, completely ignoring Sirius’s increasingly fevered yells. “We weren’t sure what you liked, so we decided on Vermen, a house-elf who served our family for 312 years, a gift from the Russian Czar to my great-great Grandmother, Auriga, on the day she finished Durmstrang. There’s a great deal of magic in the decapitated heads of one’s servants, you understand.”

Remus worked his throat, but couldn’t get any sound to come forth. Sirius had devolved into an unintelligible heap of agony on the floor, now cradling the mounted head of his favored house-elf, Monstir. Remus looked to Regulus, found him to be no help, either—for his part, Regulus appeared to be waiting for everyone to finish this shitshow as fast as possible so he could escape.

“That was…that was very thoughtful of you,” Remus finally managed to get out.

Mr Black gave him a tight, fake smile. Mrs Black’s lips pulled back in a death-rictus grin.

“I think, perhaps, the excitement of the morning has worn Sirius out. Would you mind terribly if I took him up for a nap?” 

But Remus didn’t bother waiting for a response. He snatched Sirius’s arm and hauled him up to his bedroom, and they didn’t emerge again the entire holiday. Sirius didn’t speak about Monstir ever again. Remus really wished he’d known this was what Christmas was like for the Black children any of the three prior Christmases he’d known Sirius, and got angry at him for sending him wrapped packages of taxidermied wolf feet.

‘For luck and strong magic,’ Sirius’s notes had always said.

Remus had never once realized Sirius wasn’t just having a laugh at Remus’s expense, but really, truly, hadn’t fucking known any better. The poor fucking sod.

 _Next year,_  Remus thought.  _Next year,_  he would show Sirius what Christmas was really about.


	14. Polyjuice Experiments Undertaken by Unspeakables of Questionable Morals in the Face of Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Zeitgeistic gave me the following 3 words for a Harry/Ron/Hermione fic: Quidditch, snowstorm, broken glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is unprompted for the lovely people who have been such constantly nice AO3 commenters and Tumblr rebloggers of this Secret Santa endeavor. I hope a little lovey-smutty Trio!fic will make you smile like your comments have made me smile this month, but no worries if Trio!fic’s not your cup of tea—I wasn’t sure! This one’s Explicit.
> 
> @watermelonwolf , Krysania, @rachelletwin2, and mlraven

#  **Dec. 14 for @watermelonwolf , Krysania, @rachelletwin2, and mlraven**

They’d decided to try for a baby months ago, but couldn’t quite figure out how to go about it.

Hermione had looked into ancient spells, of course, and Ron had thought about making an old fashioned ‘cauldron baby,’ but Hermione had wanted to carry to term—for research purposes. Harry, for his part, just said, “I don’t mind if it doesn’t have all three of our genes in it. I mean, maybe this time Ron could go, and Hermione, if you’re up for it again in a few years, we could have another with my DNA.”

“That’s sweet of you, Harry,” Hermione said. “But I’m determined that any child of ours will have all three of our DNA in it. It’s only fair.”

And so, she’d researched and researched, while keeping all three of them dosed to the gills in contraceptive potions to make sure she didn’t get pregnant before everything was in place. Harry and Ron were quite fine with this because, for some reason, the potions made Hermione randy as a Niffler in a bank vault.

And things continued apace all through the autumn, with everyone quite sated and clear-headed from all the sex. In fact, Harry directly contributed it to the successes each of them had had in that time:

Ron figured out the problem with the scented fireworks that had kept him and George from selling them for 3 years; Hermione finished and published her first academic paper in the  _Journal of Love and Empathic Magic_  to much talk and acclaim; and Harry got a promotion to Deputy Head Auror in October. So things were going well.

“I’ve got it!” Hermione said, one December morning as Harry was pouring the coffee and Ron was plating the French toast. 

“Got what, love?” said Ron.

“Polyjuice,” Hermione said smugly. She held up two small vials and shook them enticingly. 

Harry tilted his head, squinting. “What now?” He handed Hermione her cup of milky coffee and then passed Ron’s to him. “Why do we need Polyjuice?”

“For a baby, of course,” Hermione said. “Head Unspeakable Graves has let me take on a side project into the genetic changes effected by a dose of Polyjuice, and this week, I finally proved it!  A person under a fresh batch of Polyjuice, a ‘Taker,’ assumes about 50% of the DNA of the person whose bio-sample was in the Polyjuice—the ‘Giver’.

“Which means,” Hermione continued, before either of them could interrupt, “that if you, Harry, for example, are Polyjuiced as Ron and one of your spermatozoa successfully reaches one of my ova, then the baby will have 25% of your DNA, 25% of Ron’s DNA, and 50% of my DNA. In effect, a baby from all three of us.”

Harry and Ron shared a look, then turned as one to look at Hermione. She was still sitting there all smug, waiting for them to tell her what a genius she was.

“You’re a fucking genius, Herm!” Ron said. 

“We’re going to have a baby?!” Harry said, not sure if he was excited or fucking overcome with happiness at it finally happening. “Really?”

“Mum’s going to be so chuffed!” Ron continued, and then began to eat his French toast at great speed out of happiness.

“Yes, and I’m at peak ovulation…oh, what do you know,” Hermione said, smugly, “today.”

They looked at one another again, and then Ron said, “What are you waiting for?! Eat your breakfast and get your strength up!”

Which was how Harry nearly choked on his French toast trying to scarf it down, but fortunately, Hermione had always been quick with a Heimlich Spell since that time Ron had nearly asphyxiated after accidentally taking Harry’s ejaculate down the wrong pipe.

Not a situation any of them wanted to repeat.

But fortunately, today was turning out much better. They’d finished breakfast at a respectable pace, then fairly dragged Hermione from the table (she’d paused to drain the rest of her coffee) and tugged her back to their bedroom.

It was a obvious mix of all three of them, with Ron’s glow-in-the-dark Chudley Cannons posters on the ceiling, Harry’s collection of famous Snitches on the windowsill, and Hermione’s recreational reading bookshelves taking up an entire wall and, recently, even beginning to encroach on the part of the ceiling where Ron’s posters were. But their bed was huge and soft, with sheets and goose-feather duvet in a compromising shade of lavender (they had compromised to Hermione), and their wardrobe was expanded so that each of them had the equivalent of a large walk-in, and they rotated where they slept so no one was always stuck in the middle—so life had really been very nice for the most part since they decided to give this three-way relationship a go.

Hermione doled out their Polyjuice doses and they quickly chugged them back. Harry laughed as he felt his feet and hands getting bigger, his legs growing longer, his eyesight getting better.

“ _This_  is what it’s like to be you?” Harry asked. “This is brilliant!”

Ron scowled at him from Harry’s face. “I’d forgotten how shit your eyesight was—gimme your glasses so I can find your cock and Hermione’s cunt at some point today.”

Harry cackled, very much enjoying not needing an accessory to see properly, and handed his glasses over. “What do you think, Hermione?” he said, striking a pose, jutting his groin outwards.

She raised an eyebrow, rolled her eyes. “Boys,” she said, on a sigh.

But then she started shucking her dressing gown and they both snapped their eyes towards her, watching one creamy inch of terra-cotta skin after another appear. She dropped the dressing gown and turned around for them to shimmy her bum and slowly pull her silky knickers down her legs. She bent over to pull them from her feet, giving Harry and Ron a lovely view that had them both groaning in one another’s voices.

Harry reached blindly for Ron, tugging him closer and pressing a kiss to his mouth, his strangely large hands tugging at Ron’s too-long joggers. Ron reached to pull Harry’s t-shirt over his head and toss it in the self-sorting laundry basket Hermione had charmed up.

She came up to them, her body warm and naked as it pressed against them, her hands pulling them into her as she kissed their necks and shoulders. Harry turned to kiss her, and Ron began pushing them both toward the bed. Hermione fell back first, giggling, her hair splaying over the duvet.

Harry fell on top of her and kissed her face, her chest and the pert peaks of her breasts. He moved lower and lower, his tongue parting her folds as Ron reached around and slid a finger in. It was so odd, Harry thought, watching himself finger Hermione when he wasn’t the one actually doing it. But he didn’t much mind because she tasted amazing and he could just sit here licking her all day. He nearly did, but then Ron’s fingers sped up, pumping firmly into her, and her hips started writhing. Harry held them down with his hands while he licked her clit in the precise method she’d instructed both of them on early into their relationship.

“Harry, Ron, yes!” Hermione moaned, her hips bucking and then stilling abruptly. She fell back, panting at the ceiling and the Chudley Cannons’ lead Chaser winked at her as he zoomed overhead. 

“Ron, come here,” she said, but she pulled Harry to her. 

He found he didn’t much mind. Somehow, hearing her call him Ron had turned him on even more. His freckled cock was hard and aching, and she guided him into her. He groaned as he slipped right in. She was dripping wet.

Harry started a slow rhythm, trying to keep himself from coming too soon, but Ron wasn’t making it easy for him. He’d whispered a few cleaning and lubricating spells and was beginning to work a finger into Harry’s arse, which was, well it was quite nice. He groaned, his hips stuttering as Ron finally got him read and slid inside.

“Fuck, yeah, mate,” Ron groaned, in Harry’s voice, which was a bit weird, but not weird enough to make Harry want to stop.

“Yes, yes, fuck him, Harry,” Hermione moaned. “He loves it.”

That was very true, but Hermione had seemingly already fallen into such a lust-crazed haze that she’d forgotten they were both Polyjuiced, which was fine, because Harry was getting more and more turned on hearing it. And it was true; Ron really did love it when Harry fucked him.

Ron angled his hips and the change pressed his cock against Harry’s prostate, sending a flare of sparkling pleasure through his body. He slammed into Hermione, his cock throbbing, and she grabbed his hips to pull him in, her head falling back on a moan.

“Fuck, yes, fuck me Ron,” Hermione said.

And that was really all it took for him to obey. He slid back, making Ron’s cock rub against his prostate again, and thrust forward, Hermione’s tight pussy sending waves of pleasure through his whole body. Again and again, Harry fucked Hermione while fucking himself on Ron’s cock, the pleasure building and building until all he could do was succumb to the frenzy.

“Yes, god, that’s it, I’m so close,” Harry moaned, his eyes scrunched tight.

“Come on, mate,” Ron whispered in his ear, his breathing rapid. “Come on my cock. Fill her up.”

“Unfff,” Harry moaned, his hips shuddering as his orgasm ripped through him. He pumped himself into Hermione while Ron fucked him, feeling as though he’d died and become a spirit by the end, because he was so boneless. Ron slipped out, and Harry fell to Hermione with an ‘Oof’.

Harry rolled to the side, his cock slipping free, and kissed Hermione. Behind him, he heard Ron whisper another cleaning spell and then Hermione arched up, moaning as Ron entered her, too.

“Fuck, you both feel so good,” Ron babbled. “I’m not gonna last.”

“Come on, do it,” Harry told him. “She feels so good, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron groaned, his head lolling back as he grabbed her hips and thrust into her.

Harry reached down, pressing two fingers to her clit and circling expertly. Hermione began to whine, her hips coming to meet each of Ron’s thrusts, her moans getting louder and louder.

“Yes,” Hermione moaned. “You’re going to make me come again.”

“Fuck, yeah,” said Ron, his thrusts going deeper, harder than ever before. Harry continued rubbing Hermione’s clit and he knew when he had her—she seized, her mouth falling open as she screamed her pleasure. 

“God, yes, you both fuck me so good,” Hermione panted, hips still rolling. “I love it when you fuck me.”

That was all it took for Ron. He slammed in, his body arching into her, screaming their names as he emptied himself in Hermione’s pussy.

Ron slowed his thrusts, catching his breath, before he slowly pulled out and rolled to her other side. The three of them lay there panting for several long moments. Long enough that the Polyjuice began to wear off and Harry got the uncomfortable feeling of his body changing again. Wordlessly, Ron handed him his glasses.

Hermione conjured a glass of water for each of them. “Hydrate, please,” she reminded them. They dutifully drank, then fell back to the bed, happy smiles on all three of their faces.

“We really gotta try this with Hermione Polyjuiced into us so she can try it, too,” Ron said, absently flicking his wand and sending ghostly Quaffles at his Cannons poster for the players to toss around. “And I want to try as Hermione,” he added.

“Me, too,” said Harry. “This was brill. You have the best ideas, Hermione.”

“I know,” she said.

He and Ron laughed, reached over simultaneously to tickle her, but it somehow turned into absently rubbing her breasts and pussy again, which she never seemed to mind.

“You think it worked?” Ron asked. 

“If not this time, there’s always next month,” Hermione said. “I made several batches of Polyjuice in preparation.”

“Smart girl,” Harry said.

But it turned out that while they did indeed use those other batches at later dates, they didn’t need to. For, six weeks later, they woke to Hermione puking in the loo.

Harry and Ron brought her two bouquets of roses to cheer her up, and it seemed the only smell she could tolerate, so they high-fived over getting that one right. Mrs Weasley was indeed quite chuffed. She fussed over Hermione constantly, sending her broth and more roses and even picking up murder mystery books for Hermione to read on the days she felt too ill to work—which, admittedly, were few because Hermione insisted on working right up until the day she gave birth.

In fact, Harry found out about it from an inter-office memo she sent up from the Department of Mysteries.

‘In labour,’ it read in her precise handwriting. ‘Planning to finish this experiment and then heading to St Mungo’s. See you soon. xoxo Hermione. PS please tell Ron, as I my contractions are coming quickly and I appear to be 8cm dilated already and I really want to finish this before I leave.’

Harry took the lift straight down to Mysteries, took the revolving door to their front desk person (whose face Harry could not see due to the thousands of layers of secrecy spells they wore) and demanded they send Hermione out immediately.

“I cannot confirm a Hermione works here,” said the front desk person. “If I could take your name, Deputy Head Auror Potter?”

“Yeah, it’s Deputy Head Auror Potter, and the person who may or may not work here named Hermione is currently in active labour and refuses to go to hospital until she finishes her experiment so if you would rather not have a baby born in the middle of your department—and I’m sure you can imagine the exposure and lack of privacy  _that_  would bring on your department—you will fetch her at once.”

The faceless person contemplated this, then nodded. “I see your point. I will attempt to send such a person, should she exist, to meet you post-haste.” Then they left through the revolving door again.

A moment later, Hermione stomped out—well, wobbled out, really—and huffed at Harry: “Harry, this is so like you. Everything is fine, and you were supposed to get Ron, as I told you—”

She broke off, wincing, as a contraction came.

“You know I don’t listen,” he said, already guiding her back to the lifts. He pressed the button for the Atrium. Hermione bent double as another contraction came. “You should’ve sent the letter to Ron in that case.” The lift opened into the Atrium and he led her to the Floos. “St Mungo’s. Not that he would’ve listened either.”

They stepped out of the Floo at St Mungo’s and Harry said to the Welcome Witch. “My wife’s in labour, at least 8cm, contractions seem to be about 15 minutes apart. I need you to take her to Labour and Delivery while I Floo my husband.”

Hermione gave him a glare, but it was somewhat ruined by the contraction she got in the middle of it that left her panting and clinging to Harry to stay upright.

“Right away!” the Welcome Witch said, and sent a spell flying from her wand that zoomed up the stairs. A moment later, two Labour Mediwitches popped into the lobby with a stretcher between them. 

“Up you get, Mrs Granger.”

Hermione scooted onto the stretcher, glaring at Harry the whole time. “If my experiment is ruined, I’ll make sure you hear about it every day for the entirety of my maternity leave, Harry Potter!”

Then they rushed her off to Labour and Delivery and Harry rushed to the public Floo bank to call Ron at the shop. Unfortunately, George answered and spent valuable time exclaiming in joy before he’d go get Ron, but he finally did, and then Ron stumbled out of the Floo, face white with shock.

“It’s happening?” he asked, clinging to Harry’s forearms.

“Yeah, really soon. She’s nearly fully dilated, so we need to—”

Ron had already taken off for the lifts, stabbing at the door open button as if that would make the lift come sooner. “She’s going to be fine,” Ron told Harry and himself, nodding assuredly. “Hermione’s smart and she knows what to do.”

“Right,” Harry said, but that didn’t make him any less nervous. In fact, now that the ‘action’ part of this quest was over with and he was just left with the ‘sit around waiting’ part, he was getting more and more nervous. He didn’t do well with the sit around waiting part.

They burst out of the lifts and the station Mediwizard took one look at them and said, “Down the hall on the left. Room 12.”

From which they could currently hear screams. They took off at a run, skidding into Hermione’s room and getting annoyed glances from the Healers currently bent over peering into her vagina like they had any right.

“Next one, you’ll push, love,” the first Healer said. “Moving right along at a nice clip here. A few good pushes and you’ll be on your way.”

Hermione panted, gave them a wobbly smile. They rushed to each side of her bed, each taking one of her hands. She bent forward, her face scrunching, and screamed, and that was basically all that Harry remembered from that point forward because he was pretty sure his brain disassociated from his body to keep him from fainting. It was not okay to faint right then, as Hermione was the one doing the hard part.

And that was how they ended up with Rose, who had bright green eyes, curly red hair, and lovely tawny skin with a dusting of freckles.

Hugo, on the other hand—well, Ron came to regret suggesting they try him Polyjuicing into Hermione and Hermione Polyjuicing into Harry and Harry Polyjuicing into Ron. Especially when Hermione was ovulating. For all her research, she’d never considered that her being currently in ovulation would carry over to Ron if he drank Polyjuice with one of her hairs in.

But she was, at least, a very good birth coach.


	15. Letter to the Editor and Ridiculous Twats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Could I have a Secret Santa drabble for @unadulteratedstorycollector? Pairing: Drarry (sorry I'm obsessed) and flirting, newspaper, Christmas songs. Thank you <3

#  **Dec 15 for @unadulteratedstorycollector**

_Letters submitted to the Editor of the_ Daily Prophet _, for the Rants and Raves section, from 20 November — 24 December of this year._

* * *

Dear Reader,

I write in response to the use of Christmas- and Hanukkah-themed music currently playing in Diagon Alley’s Main Street, and which has been present since 10 November of this year. This is entirely too early for holiday music and I beseech you to stop this madness, and not resume it until at least 1 December.

Sincerely,

Going Barmy in Bath

* * *

Dear Reader,

I write in response to the absolute t*** who wrote in yesterday, regarding the playing of Christmas music. My question for Barmy in Bath is thus: Why are you such a miserable sod? Let people enjoy Christmas, for Merlin’s sake!

Sincerely,

Christmas Cheer Enough For All Of You

* * *

Dear Reader, but specifically Christmas Cheer Enough For All Of You,

Do you not understand that prepositions and articles are not capitalized in titles, you absolute w*****? Further, it is not even yet December! When Christmas music starts playing so early, it gets old before the actual holiday comes around, therefore burning out all the normal people in the area and anyone over the age of 12. 1st December is a fair compromise. Any reasonable person would agree.

Sincerely,

Still Barmy in Bath

* * *

Dear Barmy Bather,

I beg to differ. Reasonable people would, in my estimation, allow others to have a good time without trying to ruin the season for everyone. If you don’t like Christmas music, use an Earmuff spell!

Sincerely,

Enough Christmas Cheer And Capped Prepositions And Capped Articles For Everyone, Go F*** Yourself

* * *

Dear Reader,

It is now 1 December. I write in to gently remind all in our warm and reasonable community—even spiteful, petty abusers of grammar—that today would be a good day to start playing Christmas and Hanukkah music, rather than 10 November. Today is a symbolic marker of the beginning of the holiday season and provides a full three weeks to fully enjoy the spirit and majesty of the season, without becoming so used to hearing holiday music that it loses all meaning to the listener’s ears.

Sincerely,

Basking in the Holiday Spirit in Bath

* * *

Dear Bath,

You again? While you’ve been spending the last 3 weeks raging over Christmas cheer, the rest of us have been having a great time decorating, singing, picking out presents for loved ones, and looking up recipes for mince pies. You’re a bit late to the party.

Sincerely.

Still Cheerful, Despite Having Listened To Three Weeks Of Christmas Music Already

* * *

Dear Reader,

I write in response to the ongoing debate over holiday music between the reader in Bath and Still Cheerful. I must formally acknowledge that I have had my fill of Christmas music after these 3 weeks and that Still Cheerful does not speak to me. I could support pushing the start date back a week or two. Further, I would like to remind Cheerful that there is more than one holiday in December and the rest of us have to listen to Christmas music anyway.

Sincerely,

Jolly Jewish Girl, Despite Having to Listen to Absolute Ages of Christmas Music

* * *

Dear Reader,

I write in response to the absolute w*nkery displayed by Still Cheerful, who has shown Holiday Spirit is just a phrase to themselves, by being such an oblivious and insistent pr*ck in regards to a simple letter to the paper. While Cheerful has been spending the past month having a grand time with his family, he has neglected to remember the hundreds of us in our community left without family of our own, due to the war and other causes. I am gratified Cheerful has so many people to spend the holiday with, however, for many of us, 6 weeks of holiday music only elongates the misery of spending yet another Christmas night alone in our flats. I once again ask the members of the Diagon Planning Committee to resist playing holiday-themed music until 1 December—a fair compromise.

Sincerely,

Bent, but Not Broken in Bath

* * *

Dear Bath,

Sorry, mate. I had no idea. You can come to mine this Christmas! The more the merrier! Owl Box #212.

Sincerely,

Still Cheerful

* * *

Dear Reader,

After consideration, I acknowledge that 10 November is perhaps too soon for Christmas (and Hanukkah) music. I am willing to compromise on 25 November in future years.

Still Cheerful

* * *

Dear Cheerful,

Thank you for the kind offer to spend Christmas with you and your family, you absolute utter idiot. I can’t believe you would compromise your security and safety for some random sod writing into the  _Prophet_. As it happens, I will already be there with you at Christmas, you total dork, as I am your husband. Who was writing from my office in Bath. An office whose location you’ve known about since we began dating ten years ago. How did you not know you were writing to me, you ridiculous wanker???

Love,

Draco

* * *

Dear Draco,

Oh, I knew it was you. But it was working so well for me. You came home so angry every time I wrote in reply to you but you couldn’t outwardly blame me without giving up the game. Remember that mind-blowing sex we had after my last letter in? *wink wink* I suspect you’ll be just as angry tonight, so I’m taking the afternoon off and I’ll meet you at the house with the Floo blocked, without pants on. See you soon.

xoxo,

Harry

PS: Nice try with the sob story. Your parents are warm and cozy in the Manor, the lucky sods, but that was still a valid argument and you were right about it in theory.


	16. A South Star to Guide You Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From @tdcatsblog for icarusinflight/@candybarrnerd Prompts: the kindness of strangers; starlight; winter solstice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @agentmoppet for the Auzzi-pick!
> 
> (Yes, this is a day late.)
> 
> This can be considered an outtake of "Azoth".

“Oh…fuck it all!” Hermione said, feeling hot tears well up in her eyes. 

The waiter gave her a wary look, and Hermione waved her hand, the other coming up to shield her face, as she pushed her chair back and stumbled out of the café. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready.

Millicent’s mouth fell open, but Hermione was out the door before she could say a word. She felt a little guilty leaving Milly to handle it—to pay the waiter for the two teas they’d already ordered and make apologies—but it was just…she should have  _known_  better than to go to an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. 

Not today, not when they were less than 24 hours from seeing Hermione’s parents again, and maybe…

 _Maybe_.

It was just…the whole place had smelled like coming home from Hogwarts during hols…the smell of her mum’s cooking filling the house and making it feel like  _home_. She’d wanted to share that piece of her history with Millicent, but she had overestimated her own capacity for chill, apparently.

Hermione leant against the building, sniffling, focusing on taking slow, deep breaths like the PTSD books instructed.

The night was warm and they were far enough into the suburbs that there were some stars visible. Hermione tried to find the North Star, a habit she’d taken up as a first year, to ground herself. That it took her several moments of scanning the sky without luck to remember Polaris wasn’t visible to most of the southern hemisphere, she almost started crying again. Couldn’t one thing just be as she remembered it?

But no. That wasn’t how life worked. Hermione took a fortifying sniff. Things looked different, but underneath, they were still the same.

Her parents didn’t believe her yet, but underneath, they were sitll her parents.

And they were willing to listen to her tomorrow.

“You all right, mate?” a woman said, slowing as she approached Hermione on the sidewalk. She had mala bead prayer necklace on that fell to her waist, and more beads braided into her hair. “You need anything?”

Hermione hurriedly wiped her eyes, put a smile on her face. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

The woman stepped a bit closer, her forehead creasing as she studied Hermione’s face. “You’re a bit too far from home to be having such a rotten night, pet. You sure?”

Hermione laughed, and it turned into a pathetic little sob. “I’m fine,” she said again, sniffling. The woman reached up and put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, her stack of golden bangles jingling as she rubbed gently, and that small gesture destroyed the last of Hermione’s control. 

“It’s just…my parents,” Hermione said between a sob. “They moved here last year and I haven’t spoken to them since and they—”

“Oh, lovie,” the woman said. 

She kept rubbing Hermione’s shoulder and Hermione’ kept crying, and Millicent was probably still trying to figure out what to do with Hermione’s credit card, and everything was just such a  _disaster_ , and—

“Tonight’s the solstice, you know,“ said the woman. “’Course, for us that means our days get shorter, but you’re English, yeah? So, where you and your folks are from, your days are getting longer. It’s time for your energies to grow and heal—time for reconciliations and mending. I bet your folks’ll be feeling that too. There’s hope, pet, don’t you worry.”

Hermione wiped her eyes, inconspicuously pulled a hankie from her bottomless bag and blew her nose. She gave the woman a watery smile.

“You’re right. Thank you.”

The woman smiled. Then she dropped her hand from Hermione’s shoulder and pulled a bangle from her wrist. “Here, take this—”

“I couldn’t—” Hermione began, but the woman shook her head and pressed it into Hermione’s hand, closing her fingers around it.

“It’s lucky,” the woman said. She pointed to the star and moon charms sliding around the golden bangle. “See—the stars’ll guide you. A South Star to guide you home. This is your time, pet. Make the most of it and things will come out right.”

Then she reached in and hugged Hermione, who was so stunned that it took her a moment to hug back. She pulled away, smiling, and patted Hermione’s shoulder once more before continuing on her way.

Hermione was left staring after her, her eyes still sore and puffy, but her heart a bit lighter.

“Should I be worried?”

Hermione’s heart lightened further still. No matter what happened tomorrow, she had Millicent, and Millicent was everything she needed. Hermione slipped the bangle on her wrist, turned to face Millicent.

“No, love. Just a kind stranger.”

“Very kind,” Millicent said, pointedly.

Hermione bit her lip. “Yes, very kind. Unusually kind.” 

Almost…unnaturally kind. Hermione glanced down the street again, but the stranger was gone. Perhaps she’d turned a corner, or got into a taxi…

“But tonight’s the winter solstice at home,” Hermione said, looking down at her new bangle. “Tomorrow, the days start getting longer.”

Millicent came up and put an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, pulling her into a fierce half-hug. She handed Hermione’s credit card back to her, along with a receipt. 

“I signed your name,” Millicent said. “My first criminal act.”

Hermione laughed, turned fully into Millicent and tipped her head up to kiss her. When she pulled away, she was smiling. “That is the darkest of lies, and I’ll never believe it,” she told Millicent.

Millicent shrugged. “Darkest of lies for the darkest of nights. And tomorrow’s your new day.”


	17. Draco Malfoy: Invisible Git

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already had a request for them - and aren't already completely snowed under by requests. could you please do a secret santa for tdcat aka tdcatsblog? For the three themes can I request hands, secret rendezvous, and library /books/or knowledge (I wanted to leave it as vague /broad as possible so that you can interpret as you wish - hope that's okay). THANK YOU

Harry looked around, then carefully pulled  _How to Get a Killer Animagus Form_  from the shelf. He opened to page 88, his heart already hammering in anticipation.

There was a note. Harry’s fingers traced the folded edges of it, his eyes falling shut at the smooth parchment, so unlike the kind he always ordered from Scrivenshaft’s. It even smelled different—there were flecks of green herbs pressed into the soft paper.

Harry put the book back in its place and unfolded the note, his shoulders curling in as if to hide it from the rest of the world, though there was no one near him.

 _I’m here_ , it read. And that was all.

Harry frowned, confused, but then he felt the ghost of a touch against his lower back. He spun around, clutching the note in his hand, but there was no one there.

The touch came again, this time to his belly, just below his navel, above the waistband of his trousers. He shivered, his eyes fluttering.

“Draco?” he mouthed, not even a whisper.

No reply came, but then the air changed and Harry felt that ghosting touch against his back again—invisible hands trailing down his spine, his thighs. Turning back up and caressing his waist, the sides of his ribs, making him shudder with want.

The invisible hands pulled him back, and Harry’s back pressed against another chest, the scent of Draco’s magic filled Harry’s nose and he barely withheld a moan as Draco’s hands curled around him, one over his belly and another over his chest, keeping him pinned to Draco as Draco’s breath ghosted over Harry’s neck.

“You took my cloak,” Harry murmured, his head falling back. “You’re a dirty thief.”

The only response he got was a quiet, smug laugh. Which was really just so like Draco.

It had only taken two weeks of sharing a room with Malfoy at the start of Eighth Year for him to figure out the unlocking combination for Harry’s trunk ward and start making himself at him with Harry’s cloak. It had taken three weeks, by comparison, for them to get into a fight that began with Malfoy punching Harry and ended with Harry kissing him.

Draco’s invisible hands drifted lower, palming Harry through his trousers. Harry pressed his hips forward, aching for contact, and Draco popped the button and slid his hand inside, expertly navigating Harry’s pants and wrapping his fingers around Harry’s prick.

Harry bit his lip nearly ‘til it bled to keep from making noise. He was already breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring with each out-breath. Draco began stroking him, his thumb catching the head and rubbing the slick pre-come all around.

Harry’s thighs quivered, he leant against Draco for support, and Draco mouthed at his neck as he held Harry up with one hand and worked his cock with the other.

Everything was getting brighter, more vivid, and that toe-curling feeling was starting up in his lower belly. Harry’s hips pressed into Draco’s hand with short, rugged thrusts. He turned his head, catching Draco’s mouth in a searing kiss, feeling his orgasm getting closer and closer.

Draco gave a little twist and that was it, Harry was going to—

Draco pulled his hand out, pressed it to the front of Harry’s trousers as if to still it.

“Wha—what?” Harry murmured. “I was—”

Draco snickered against his ear, licked a trail up from his shoulder back to his ear.

“See you after class,” Draco murmured, and then he was gone.

Harry stood there in the middle of the aisle, panting, his cock up like a bloody flagpole. His senses slowly returned to him. He narrowed his eyes.

“You absolute git,” he muttered to the empty air. “Just you wait until tonight.”


	18. How to Know You’ve Finally Made it as an Official Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey Your Loveliness! I'd love to request a little Ron/Cormac for @aibidil and @silverglass alike--is that allowed? My prompts are: breastmilk, gym time, Weasley jumper(s). Whether you get to this or not, thanks for spreading the holiday cheer! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Day #21 bc it's aibidil's birthday, but I'm behind bc I've been out with the flu, so let's pretend it's all in order.

#  **Dec 21 | for @aibidil (Happy Birthday!) and @silveredglass (Happy UnBirthday!)**

“Does breastmilk have carbs?” Cormac asked.

Ron paused, the ink dripping from his quill. He stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on some middle distance where Muggles were out shopping for last minute Christmas presents. They had  _still_  not sent out all their holiday cards.

Behind him, Cormac was doing curls with sand-filled milk jugs. Ron could hear him ‘ _hph_ — _hph_ — _hph_ ’ with each rep.

“What,” said Ron.

“Carbs,” Cormac repeated, between reps. “You think breastmilk has more or less than normal milk?”

Ron frowned. This was not something he’d ever wanted to consider, and now Cormac was forcing him to consider it.

“I was going to bake a cake,” Cormac said, still repping. “For a birthday party.”

“Whose?” Ron asked, finally turning around. 

Cormac shrugged, set the jugs down and started doing burpees. “Like, for Winter. It’s Winter’s birthday on the 21st.”

“Are you talking about the Winter Solstice?” asked Ron.

“Yeah—of—course,” Cormac said, between burpees. Ron watched him, unconsciously admiring the way Cormac’s muscles rippled as he finished his set, then stood, wiping his forehead with the lime green Nike armband around his forearm. “Just thought, you know, Mother Nature would appreciate breast milk over regular milk.”

“Milk that  _also_  comes from breasts,” Ron felt the need to point out. “Cow ones.”

“Cow breasts,” Cormac repeated, eyeing him skeptically. “You’re mad. Should I just Floo your mum and ask her? I bet she’d know.”

“No!” Ron said. Cormac gave him an odd look. “My mum totally wouldn’t know. Don’t ask her that.”

“You sure? I bet she—” Cormac broke off as the Floor flared green and Ron’s mother poked her head through.

“Morning, boys,” said Molly. She gave Cormac a fond smile. “Gym time?”

“Always, Mrs Weez,” said Cormac, saluting her between one-armed/one-legged push-ups. “Hey, Ron didn’t think you’d know, but—”

“Cormac,” Ron begged. Cormac continued doing push-ups.

“—You’re so smart, especially with baking, I bet you’d know. You think breast milk has more carbs than regular milk?”

Molly blinked, tilted her head. “Love, I do think it has more carbs…and less protein, too. You really should stick to cow milk.”

Cormac popped up from one last push-up, pulled himself into a sitting position in front of the fireplace, wiping the sweat off his face with his forearm band. He nodded thoughtfully.

“I just wanted to do something nice for Winter’s birthday.”

Molly didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure the Solstice would be just as happy with a cake made from regular milk, and where would you get breast milk from, anyway?”

Don’t say— Ron thought desperately.

“Hermione’s got loads right now,” Cormac said, holding his hands up in front of his chest and squeezing his fingers around two imaginary (huge) breasts. “Knockers that big, I bet she can’t  _give_  it all away.”

Molly gave Ron a look, as if this was all his fault, but it was  _not_  Ron’s fault. He couldn’t  _control_  Cormac.  _Cormac_  couldn’t even control Cormac! He shrugged helplessly at his mother.

Molly returned her gaze to Cormac. “The twins have dibs on both of Hermione’s breasts at the moment. I’m afraid it’s Tesco for you, love. But if you gather the ingredients and bring them to the Burrow tomorrow morning, I’ll help you bake a lovely cake for Winter. We can use Stevia,” she added enticingly.

“Brilliant, Mrs Weez!” Cormac exclaimed.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Molly said, leaning out of the fireplace and then back in. She handed Cormac a gold-and-red jumper, then held a red-and-gold one out for Ron. “Wear them for the family photo, won’t you, dears?”

“‘Course, Mum,” Ron said, before he had a chance to look at it.

Molly gave them both fond smiles and ended the call.

“These are brilliant!” Cormac yelled.

Ron jumped, startled. Cormac was already sliding his jumper on over his muscle-shirt. Ron stared at it. The blood drained from his face. “It’s like we’re one person now!” Cormac added, beaming.

The jumper didn’t have a ‘C for Cormac’ on it. It had a whole word. A combination of two words, actually. Horrified, Ron unfolded his own jumper, but it was no better. Ron’s traitorous mother had knitted ‘RORMAC’ into both.


	19. A Quiet Evening with the Dark Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I was able to stare at a screen without vomming long enough to write ONE MORE Secret Santa. I am my own Secret Santa. Is that allowed? Today is the Dark Lord’s birthday. We are both Capricorns. He’s an INTJ; I am an ENTP (this is why I am more likely to be a benevolent dictator than he was). Happy birthday, Voldemort, you asshole!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last Secret Santa. I know I only got to 19 and not 31, but if you read my Tumblr you'll know why. If you don't, it's because I've been having some really debilitating nausea and fatigue, and haven't been able to stare at a screen long enough to write. I pushed myself and got one last Santa out. :)
> 
> This can be considered an outtake from my other fic, The Hush of War.

#  **Dec 31 } for me :)**

Voldemort sighed, contented, as he sank down into his overstuffed armchair. Say what you will about the Malfoys, Voldemort thought, they knew how to apply a good cushioning charm. Much better than the Lestranges and the Dolohovs did, at any rate.

Horvitz, Voldemort’s personal house-elf and therefore trustworthy, popped in with the tea tray. Voldemort’s favorite teacup—a gaudy gold chalice, to be exact—was perched on a silver platter. The comforting scent of over-brewed builders tea wafted up from the cup as Horvitz poured the water in. He followed it with two squeezes of lemon—extra bitter—just as Voldemort preferred.

“Thank you, Horvitz,” said Voldemort, taking the cup. 

He inhaled deeply, his thin lips stretching into a relaxed smile. It was so nice to have a little break from the rigors of daily life—just a little moment to oneself to enjoy a good cuppa with his favorite house-elf in a well-charmed and -cushioned chair. Not a care in the world.

“May I get Milord anything else?” asked Horvitz.

Voldemort looked down at the tea tray, frowning in thought. He tapped a scaled finger to his lip area. “You know, I know we’ve been talking about eating healthier to keep this body fit and trim, but it  _is_ my birthday after all. I think I  _will_  have a few Jaffa Cakes.”

Horvitz beamed. “Milord should celebrate!” 

Horvitz popped away and then a second later, returned with a plate full of Jaffa Cakes. Voldemort took one and bit into it, his eyes closing in bliss as the chocolate and orange sponge flavor hit his forked tongue. He hissed in pleasure. 

Voldemort chewed, swallowed, took another sip of his tea. Horvitz was still standing there, eagerly watching him eat the cake. Voldemort lifted what had once been his eyebrow.

“What is it? Do I have a crumb?”

“No, Milord,” Horvitz said. “It’s just… that day, Milord.”

Voldemort pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “And you want to do the thing.”

Horvitz nodded. “Horvitz wants to do the thing.”

Voldemort sighed, set his tea aside on the table by the chair. “Very well, then.”

Horvitz cleared his throat. He hummed a few notes. Then he opened his green mouth and sang in a lovely baritone: 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Milorrrrrrd—”

He cut off abruptly as a knock came at the door. Voldemort’s eyes went wide, and he made a desperate slashing motion at his neck to get Horvitz to shut up. Horvitz’s eyes widened and he popped away, disappearing without another word.

Voldemort cleared his throat. “Come in.”

Lucius strode in, imperious, and Voldemort rolled his eyes. Could a man not get a single mo’ of peace without some peacocking servant coming to ruin it?

“Good evening, Milord,” said Lucius. “It is nearly midnight and a new year—another wonderful, exciting new chance to raise our voices and be heard! Another year to champion our cause! To stamp Muggles from the earth! To grow rich!”

“Lucius,” Voldemort prompted. “Do get to the point.”

“I came to wish you a happy birthday, Milord.” Lucius pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. “It is just five til midnight.”

“Yes, and?”

Lucius bowed low and then rose, a smile playing at his lips. “You have heard, Milord, that they say the person you are with at midnight on the New Year is the person you will be with for the next year?”

“Christ,” Voldemort muttered, too low for Lucius to hear. A desperate feeling was rising in Voldemort’s chest. He knew that kind of magic, and he certainly didn’t want to spend the entire next year with Lucius sodding Malfoy. 

“Good point, Lucius. Give me your arm. Our collective should spend the time together. All of us. A happy family.”

Lucius’s expression fell, but he dutifully held out his forearm for Voldemort. Voldemort pressed his fingers to the Mark, calling his Death Eaters. They began to pop in one-by-one, and Voldemort was grateful that by the time midnight struck, there were plenty others magic could tie him to than Lucius. He just hoped it was on his side this year.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through his Welcoming the New Year speech that he caught Severus’s gaze glued to the half-eaten Jaffa Cakes on the side table. Voldemort caught his eye, slipped inside his mind, and sent him a picture of Severus being hung, drawn, and quartered should he ever mention this to a soul. Severus smiled back at him. Now that was the kind of man Voldemort wouldn’t mind being stuck with all year.

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT REPOST OR ARCHIVE THIS FIC ANYWHERE. That includes Wattpad, Instagram, translation sites, and literally anywhere that I didn't post it myself. TY (I can't believe I am having to put this notice up again. What happened to fandom etiquette?)
> 
> Even when I do drabbles, I write too much! Happy holidays, everyone!
> 
>   1. **Lav's Louboutins** (Lavender/Millicent) for @gingertodgers  
> 
>   2. **S. Snape, Unanticipated Reactions of Unstudied Potion Combinations in Highly Magical Situations, Ars Alchemica, Vol. 204, Iss. 3, 2001, p. 13.** (Severus/Severus) for @frnklymrshnkly  
> 
>   3. **A Pimm’s Cup Full of Hot, Messy Love** (Harry/Draco, side Ron/Hermione) for @aibidil 
>   4. **Velvet and Lights** (Harry/Draco) for @bixgirl1
>   5. **Lav & Pav Predict the Future, Even During a Retrograde** (Lavender/Parvati) for @silveredglass
>   6. **Gregory Goyle’s Soon-to-Be Famous Gingerbread Biscuits** (Greg/Dudley) for @callingdrarry
>   7. **The First Year** (Harry/Draco) for @magpiefngrl
>   8. **Hope You’re Holidays are Bright and Gay (”It’s ‘your,’ Cormac.”)** (Cormac/Ron, background Greg/Dudley) for @synonym-for-life
>   9. **A Very Hagrid Christmas** (Hagrid, Skrewts, gen) for @gingertodgers
>   10. **Next Year** (Greg genfic with feels) for @jet-playin
>   11. **What You Really Look Like** (Seamus/Dean) for @GoldenTruth813
>   12. **Argus Filch Becomes a Family Man** (Filch  & Mrs Norris) for @RavenclawsQuill
>   13. **Remus’s First (and Last) Christmas with the Blacks** (pre-Sirius/Remus) for @Writcraft, @Dewitty1, and @LLAP15 
>   14. **Polyjuice Experiments Undertaken by Unspeakables of Questionable Morals in the Face of Research** (Harry/Ron/Hermione) for watermelon_wolf, Krysania, @rachelletwin2, and mlraven
>   15. **Letter to the Editor and Ridiculous Twats** (Harry/Draco) for @unadulteratedstorycollector
>   16. **A South Star to Guide You Home** (Hermione/Millicent) for @candybarrnerd/icarusinflight
>   17. **Draco Malfoy: Invisible Git** (Harry/Draco) for @tdcatsblog
>   18. **How to Know You’ve Finally Made it as an Official Weasley** (Ron/Cormac) for @aibidil and @silveredglass
>   19. **A Quiet Evening with the Dark Lord** (gen Voldemort) for me
> 



End file.
